biCE Selections 



3 00 GEMS 




Class -JtlLkiUL- 
Copyiight^N? 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 



CHOICE SELECTIONS 



OF 



POETRY 



FOR 



CHILDREN AND YOUTH 



EDUCATIONAL IN MORALS 
AND MANNERS 



INSTRUCTIVE AND ENTERTAINING 



Collected and Collated by 
JOHN W. BAIRD 



INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA. 
1903. 



JMiuo 



■ 



ftLASB clXX*. No. 






11 7 1 



Copyright, 1903, 
By John W. Baird. 




Preface 



J J jHILE engaged in collating a general book of poetry from a large 
AW* collection of selected gems, gathered by me during a period 
of nearly half a century, I found so much that I thought would 
be beneficial to children and youth, I concluded to make a 
smaller book especially for them, and here it is. 

In this I indulge the hope that it may aid in fixing in the 
minds of all readers, those right thoughts lessons and principles, 
that make children happier, and more surely tend to the formation of that 
character and purpose in life that leads up to good citizenship ; so that 
when they are grown up to manhood and womanhood they will naturally 
take their places as good and useful men and women in all the better 
walks of life. 

"As the twig is bent, so is the tree inclined." 

This collection is made up almost entirely of gems culled from the 
better class of newspapers and periodicals, and therefore gleans a different 
field than other books of this kind heretofore published. 

I regret that I cannot give proper credit to all the writers. The fault 
has been on the part of the papers and periodicals from which gathered, 
in their failure to give the authors' names. As to many of the older poems, 
the authorship has never been known. I have given due credit to authors 
as far as it was possiple for me to do so. Than these, I believe no richer 
poems and verses can be found in the whole field of poetic literature. 



J. W. B. 



JgreBttttrii to 



fag 



Table of Contents 



Babyhood. 

Little Folk. 

The Home and Mother. 

Christmas-tide. 

Right Conduct and Kind Words. 

Good Advice. 

Effort and Perseverence. 

Learn to Be Useful. 

Make Good Use of Time. 

Greatness in Little Things. 

Cheerfulness. 

Lessons and Examples. 

The Good and The Beautiful. 

Miscellaneous. 

Old Sayings and Oddities. 

Sense and Nonsense. 



"Youth is the time each child should try, 

In life's bright sunny morn? 
To lay rich stores of knowledge by,' 
The whole life to adorn, 



Babyhood 



THE SWEETEST OF LULLABIES. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Thy father is tending his sheep ; 
Thy mother is shaking the dreamland 

tree, 
And down falls a little dream on thee. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

The large stars are the sheep; 
The little stars are the lambs, I guess, 
And the bright moon is the shepherdess. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Our Savior loves His sheep; 
He is the Lamb of God on high, 
"Who for our sakes came down to die. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

—Caroline Southey. 



LULLABY. 

Sleep, my little one, sleep! 
Blossoms are bending o'er thee, 
Whitest petals from every tree, 
Tenderly fluttering down to see 
My baby boy and me. 

Sleep, my little one, sleep! 

Sweetest perfume on every breeze, 

Singing of birds among the trees, 

And drowsy murmur of happy bees, 

For my baby boy and me. 

Sleep, my little one, sleep! 
Sweet dreams are waiting thee now 
In swaying the hammock and bough, 
Sunshine and blossoms are watching, I 

trow, 

My baby boy and me. 



A LULLABY. 

Bock-a-bye, hush-a-bye, baby, my sweet, 
Pink little fingers and pink little feet, 
Soft is your pillow, your cradle is white — 
Eock-a-bye, hush-a-bye, baby, good night! 

Bock-a-bye, hush-a-bye, sleep and grow 

strong; 
Life is a journey, the pathway is long; 
Soon must the baby feet up and away — 
Best, little pilgrim, oh, rest while you 

may. 

Drop the white curtains with fringes of 

brown, 
This is the way into dim Slumbertown. 
Six misty bridges that melt as we pass, 
And street after street that is waving 

with grass. 

Bock-a-bye, hush-a-bye, baby is gone, 
Wandering far till the peep of the dawn. 
Soft every footstep that passes the sill! 
Smile and be dumb when the cradle 
hangs still. 

—Boston Pilot. 



LULLABY. 

I've found my bonny babe a nest 

On Slumber Tree. 
I '11 rock you there to rosy rest, 

Astore Machree! 
Oh, lulla lo ! sing all the leaves 

On Slumber Tree, 
Till everything that hurts or grieves 

Afar must flee. 

I'd put my pretty child to float 

Away from me, 
Within the new moon's silver boat 

On Slumber Sea. 



BABYHOOD 



And when your starry sail is o 'er, 
From Slumber Sea, 

My precious one, you'll step to shore 
On mother's knee. 

—Alfred P. Graves. 



EOCK-A-BTE. 

"Eock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green," 
Over thy slumbers the cool branches lean; 
Bees in thy bower are crooning their 

song, 
Leaves whisper round thee all the day 
long; 
Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, blue are the 

skies, 
Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, shut little eyes. 

"Eock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green," 
Tiny brown mothers their soft feathers 

preen, 
While the dear birdlings are hushed in 

the nest, 
And the light breezes blow out of the 

west; 
Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, blue are the 

skies, 
Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, shut little eyes. 

' ' Eock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green, ' ' 

Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen; 

Sweet as the dews in the cups of the flow- 
ers 

Love sheds its balm on thee through the 
bright hours; 
Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, blue are the 

skies, 
Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, shut little eyes. 

—James B. Kenyon, in the Independent. 



CEADLE SONG. 

In the garden of Dreamland a flower 
ever grows, 

In form like a lily, in hue like a rose, 

With odor like jesamine sprinkled with 
dew, 

And its bourgeons and blossoms, my dar- 
ling, for you. 

Then travel, my baby, to Dreamland. 



Slowly rock, cradle, to carry the baby; 
Steadily, readily rock, and it may be, 
Ere she shall know it, the baby will go, 
Happily smiling, to Dreamland. 

In the garden of Dreamland in summer i3 

heard, 
Thrilling there in the moonlight, a beau- 
tiful bird; 
And its music, my darling, is only for 

you. 
Then travel, my baby, to Dreamland. 
Slowly rock, cradle, to carry the baby; 
Steadily, readily rock, and it may be, 
Ere she shall know it, the baby Will go, 
Happily smiling, to Dreamland. 

To-morrow my darling, refreshed by her 

rest, 
With the bird in her hand and the flower 

on her breast, 
Shall return to her mother, and frolic and 

crow, 
But to-night on her journey to Dream- 
land must go. 
Then travel, dear baby, to Dreamland. 
Slowly rock, cradle, to carry the baby; 
Steadily, readily rock, and it may be, 
Ere she shall know it, the baby will go, 
Happily smiling, to Dreamland. 
—Thomas Dunn English, in Youth's 
Companion. 



EOCK-A-BYE, BABY. 

Baby is sleeping so cozy and fair, 
While mother sits near in her old oaken 

chair, 
Her foot on the rocker, the cradle she 

swings, 
And though baby slumbers, he hears 

what she sings. 

Eock-a-bye, baby, on the tree top; 
When the wind blows the cradle will rock, 
When the bough breaks the cradle will 

fall, 
And down will come baby, cradle and all. 
Oh — rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, mother is 

near ; 
Then rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, nothing to 

fear ; 



BABYHOOD 


9 


For angels of slumber are hovering near, 
So rock-a-bye, baby, mother is here. 




Ain't dot any hair? 
'Es I have, too; 




Grandma sits knitting by the old fire- 




S'pos'n' I hadn't, 
Dess it tood drow. 




place, 
With snowy white hair and a smile -on her 




Not any teeth? 




face. 




Wouldn't have one; 




The years have passed by, yet it does not 
seem long 




Don't dit my dinner 
Gnawin' a bone. 




Since she rocked baby's papa to sleep 
with that song. 




What am I here for? 




Dear little baby, "their joy and their 




'At's petty mean; 
Who's dot a better right 




pride; 
Long may he be "with them whatever 'be- 




'T ever you've seen? 




tide. 




What am I dood for, 




The kitchen, «the cradle, that tender re- 




Did you say? 




frain 
In mem'ry will linger that lullaby strain. 
— E-ffie Channing . 




Eber so many sings 
Ebery day. 

Tourse I squall at times, 

Sometimes I bawl; 
Dey dassn't spant me, 




ONLY A BABY. 




(To a Little One Just a Week Old.) 
Only a baby, 

'Thout any hair, 




'Taus' I'm so small. 
Only a baby; 




'Cept just a little 
Fuzz here and there. 




'Es, sir, 'at's so; 
'N' if you only tood 
You'd be one, too. 




Only a baby; 

Name you have none, 
Barefooted and dimpled, 

Sweet little one. 




'At's all I've to say, 
You're mos' too old; 

Dess I '11 det into bed- 
Toes dettin' cold. 




Only a baby; 








Teeth none at all. 






What are you good for, 
Only to squall? 

Only a baby, 


EOCK-A-BYE, BABY. 

Eock-a-bye, baby! On the tree top, 
When the wind blows the cradle 


will 


Just a week old; 
What are you here for, 


Wher 


rock; 

the bough bends the cradle 


will 


You little scold? 


fall- 
Down tumbles baby, cradle and all. 

Eock-a-bye, baby! The meadow' 
bloom, 




BABY'S EEPLY. 


3 in 


Only a baby! 
What sood I be? 


Laugh at the sunbeams that dance in the 
room, 


Lots o' big folks 


Echo the birds with their own baby 


;une, 


Been little like me. 


Coo in the sunshine and flowers of June. 



10 



BABYHOOD 



Boek-a-bye, baby ! As softly it swings 
Over the cradle the mother love sings ; 
Brooding of cooing at even or dawn, 
"What will it do when the mother is gone? 

Eock-a-bye, baby ! So cloudless the skies, 
Blue as the depths of your own laughing 

eyes; 
Sweet is the lullaby over your nest 
That tenderly sings little baby to rest. 

Bock-a-bye, baby! The blue eyes will 

dream 
Sweetest when mamma's eyes over them 

beam; 
Never again will the world seem so fair; 
Sleep, little baby! There's no cloud in 

the air. 

Bock-a-bye, baby! The blue eyes will 

burn 
And ache with what your manhood will 

learn; 
Swiftly the years come with sorrow and 

care, 
With burdens the wee dimpled shoulders 

must bear. 

Boek-a-bye, baby! There's coming a day 
Whose sorrows a mother's lips can't kiss 

away — 
Days when its song will be changed to a 



Crosses that baby must bear all alone. 

Bock-a-bye, baby! The meadow's in 

bloom; 
May never the frosts pall the beauty in 

gloom ; 
Be thy world ever bright as to-day it is 

seen. 
Bock-a-bye, baby! Thy cradle is green. 



A CANADIAN LULLABY. 

Sleep, my darling one, sleep, 
Wildly the winter wind blows ; 

Wake not, my darling, to weep, 
Coldly and fierce it snows; 

Child, be thy slumber deep — 

The deeper the better— God knows. 



Dried are the tears on thy cheek, 
Close shut are thy tiny hands; 

Thy white lips so wistfully meek 
Are mute to thy hunger's demands; 

Gently, my darling one, seek 

Thy comfort in slumber's dreamlands. 

Child, be thy slumbers deep! 

Wildly the winter wind blows; 
Wake not, my darling, to weep; 

Thy mother's heart breaks for thy 
woes- 
Death, and her half brother, Sleep! 
And which is the better, who knows? 
— Algernon De V. Tassin. 



A LULLABY. 

The stars are twinkling in the skies, 

The earth is lost in slumbers deep; 
So hush, my sweet, and close thine eyes,. 

And let me lull thy soul to sleep. 
Compose thy dimpled hands to rest, 

And like a little birdling lie 
Secure within thy cozy nest 
Upon my loving mother breast, 

And slumber to my lullaby, 

So hushaby— O hushaby. 

The moon is singing to a star 

The little song I sing to you; 
The father sun has strayed afar, 

As baby 's sire is straying, too. 
And so the loving mother moon 

Sings to the little star on high; 
And as she sings, her gentle tune 
Is borne to me, and thus I croon ■ 

Bor thee, my sweet, that lullaby 

Of hushaby— O hushaby. 

There is a little one asleep 

That does not hear his mother's song;: 
But angel watchers — as I weep — 

Surround his grave the night-tide long.. 
And as I sing, my sweet, to you, 

Oh, would the lullaby I sing— 
The same sweet lullaby he knew — 
While slumb'ring on this bosom, too — 

Were borne to him on angel's wing! 

So hushaby— O hushaby. 

—Eugene Field* 



BABYHOOD 



11 



LULLABY. 

Fair is the castle up on the hill— 
Hushaby, sweet my own! 

The night is fair and the waves are still, 

And the wind is singing to you and to 
me 

In this lowly home beside the <sea — 
Hushaby, sweet my own. 

On yonder hill is store of wealth — 
Hushaby, sweet my own! 

And revelers drink to a little one's 
health; 

But you and I bide night and day 

For the other love that has sailed away — 
Hushaby, sweet my own. 

See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep 

Ghostlike, O my own! 
Out of the mists of the murmuring deep; 
Oh, see them not and make no cry 
Till the angels of death have passed U3 

by- 

Hushaby, sweet my own! 

Ah, little they reck of you and me— 
Hushaby, sweet my own! 

In our lonely home beside the -sea; 

They seek the castle up on the hill, 

And there they will do their ghostly 
will— 
Hushaby, O my own! 

Here by the sea a mother croons 

' ' Hushaby, sweet my own ; ' ' 

In yonder castle a mother swoons 

"While the angels go down to the misty 
deep, 

Bearing a little one fast -asleep — 
Hushaby, sweet 'my own! 

—Eugene Field. 



SLUMBEE SONG. 

Sleep, my little one, sleep— 
Narrow thy bed and deep; 
Neither hunger, nor thirst, nor pain 
Can touch or hurt thee ever again; 
I, thy mother, will bend and sing, 
As I watch thee calmly slumbering, 
Sleep, my little one, sleep. 



Sleep, my little one, sleep— 
Narrow thy bed and deep; 
Soon in thy angel's tender arms, 
Closely sheltered from earth alarms, 
Thou wilt awaken, baby mine, 
Where all is mercy and love divine — 
Sleep, my little one, sleep. 

Sleep, my little one, sleep — 
Narrow thy bed and deep; 
I have wept till my heart is dry, 
But now I smile as I see thee lie 
With small hands crossed in death 's mute 

prayer, 
Never to reach in the wild despair 
Of hunger's anguish. All is o'er! 
I wept, but now I can weep no more. 
Sleep, my little one, sleep. 

Sleep, my little one, sleep — 
Narrow thy bed and deep; 
A little while I, too, shall rest 
Close by the side of my baby blest. 
Safe is my baby — earth's anguish done — 
Safe at the feet of the Holy One. 
Sleep, my little one, sleep. 

— Anna B. Bensel. 



BABY MAY. 

Cheeks -as soft as July peaches; 
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches 
Poppies paleness; round, large eyes, 
Ever great with new surprise; 
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness; 
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness; 
Happy smiles and wailing cries; 
CJrows, and laughs, and tearful eyes; 
lights and shadows, swiftly borne 
Than on wind-swept autumn corn; 
•Ever some new tiny notion, 
Making every limb all' motion; 
Catchings up of leg and arms; 
•Throwings back and small alarms; 
Clutching fingers; straightening jerks; 
Twining feet whose each toe works; 
Kickings up and straining risings; 
Mother's ever new surprisings; 
Hands all want and looks all wonder 
At all things the heavens under; 



12 



BABYHOOD 



Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings 
That have more of love than lovings; 
Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness that we prize such sinning; 
Breakings dire of plates and glasses; 
Graspings small at all that passes; 
Pullings off of all that's able 
To be caught from tray or table; 
Silences — small meditations 
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations; 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tongue that nothing teaches; 
All the thoughts of whose possessing 
Must be wooed to light by guessing; 
Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings 
That we'd ever have such dreamings, 
Till from sleep we see thee breaking, 
And we'd always have thee waking; 
Wealth for which we know no measure; 
Pleasure high above all pleasure; 
Gladness brimming over gladness; 
Joy in care; delight in sadness; 
Loveliness beyond completeness; 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness; 
Beauty all that beauty may be— 
That's May Bennett; that's my baby. 
—William C. Bennett. 



LEEDLE TAWCOB STRAUSS. 

I haf a vunny leedle poy 

Vot gomes schust to my knee; 
Der queerest schap, der greatest rogue 

As efer you did see. 
He runs und yumps und smashes dings 

In all parts of der house- 
But what of dot? He vas mine son, 

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He get der measles und der mumbs, 
Und eferyding dot's out; 

He spills mine glass of lager beer, 
Puts schnuff into mine kraut; 

He fills mine pipe with Limburg cheese- 
Dot, vas der roughest chouse ; 

I'd take dot from no oder poy 
But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He dakes der milkpan for a drum, 

Und cuts mine cane in dwo 
To make der shticks to beat it mit— 

Mine cracious, dot vas drue! 



I dinks mine head vas schplit abart, 
He kicks up such a touse— 

But nefer mind, der poys vas few 
Like dot schmall Yawcob Strauss. 

He asks me questions sooch as dese : 

Who baints mine nose so red? 
Who vas it cut dot schmoot blace oudt 

Vrom der hair upon mine head? 
Und vere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 

Vene'er der glim I douse?— 
How gan I all dese tings eggsblain 

To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss? 

I somedimes dink I schall go vild 

Mit sooch a grazy poy, 
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest 

Und beaseful dimes enshoy; 
But ven he vas- aschleep in bed, 

So quiet as a mouse, 
I brays der Lord, "Dake anydings, 

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 

—Charles Follen Adams. 



FEED ENGLEHARDT'S BABY. 

Dru as I leev, most ef ry day, 
I laugh me wild to saw der way 
My scmall young baby dries to play- 
Dot funny leetle baby . 

When I look of dem leetle toes, 
Und saw dot funny leetle nose, 
Und hear der way dot rooster crows — 
I scmile like I vas grazy, 

Sometimes der comes a leetle shquall, 
Dots ven der vindy vind does crawl 
Right in his leetle shtomaeh schmall — 
Dot's too bad for der baby. 

Dot makes him sing at night so shweet, 
Und gorryparric he must eat, 
Und I must chump shpry on my feet 
To help dot leetle baby. 

He bulls my nose und kicks my hair, 
Und crawls me ofer everywhere, 
Und schlobber me— but what I care? 
Dot vas my schmall young baby. 



BABYHOOD 



13 



Around my head dot leetle arm 
Vas shquozh me all so nice and warm. 
Oh, may dere never come some harm 
To dot schmall leetle baby. 

.—Charles Follen Adams. 



BABY LOUISE. 

I'm in love with you, Baby Louise! 
With your silken hair, and your soft blue 

eyes, 
And the dreaming wisdom that in them 

lies, 
And the faint sweet smile you brought 
from the skies — 
God's sunshine, Baby Louise. 

When you fold your hands, Baby 
Louise — 
Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and 

fair — 
With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air, 
Are you trying to think of some angel- 
taught prayer 
You learned above, Baby Louise? 

I 'm in love with you, Baby Louise ! 
Why, you never raise your beautiful head 
Some day, little one, your cheek will grow 

red 
With a flush of delight to hear the words 
said, 
"I love you, Baby Louise." 
Do you hear me, Baby Louise? 
I have sung your praises for nearly an 

hour, 
And your lashes keep drooping lower and 

lower, 
And, you've gone to sleep like a weary 
flower; 
Ungrateful Baby Louise ! 

—M. E. 



BED-TIME FANCIES. 

Out from the corners and over the floor 
Come flocking and flocking the shadow 
band; 
I will get in my little white coach and 
drive 
Through the Valley of Dreams into 
Slumberland. 

I have four black horses that Night has 

lent; 

I call the name of my coachman Sleep ; 

And the little white coach is cozy and 

soft, 

As I nestle down in its cushions deep. 

Heigho! we are off. The horses go slow 
At first, then fast and faster still, 

With silent hoof-beats speeding on 
Down to the foot of Drowsy Hill. 

This twilight place is the Valley of 
Dreams, 
Where all the wonderful dream things 
are, 
And the balsam groves and the poppy 
fields 
That stretch on ever and ever so far. 

The dream forests rustle their secret out, 
The lights of the dream town twinkle 
and shine, 
And the white dream ships from the har- 
bor sail 
Away to the dim horizon line. 

Ah! the sounds of the valley are growing 
faint ; 

Its sights are fading on either hand; 
I cross the border, still and dark, 

And enter the real Slumberland. 
—Virginia C. Gardner, In Independent. 



Little Folk 



GOLDEN HAIR 

Golden Hair sat on her grandfather's 

knee; 
Dear little Golden Hair, tired was she, 
All the day busy as busy could be. 

Up in the morning as soon as 'twas 

light; 
Out with the birds and butterflies bright; 
Flitting about till the coming of night. 

Grandfather toyed with the curls on her 

head: 
''What has my baby been doing," he 

said, 
"Since she arose with the sun from her 

bed?" 

' ' Pitty much, ' ' answered the sweet, little 

one. 
"I can not tell, so much things have I 

done, — 
Played with my dolly, and feeded my 

' bun. ' 

"And I have jumped with my little 

jump-rope; 
And then I made out of water and soap 
Bufitle worlds, mamma's 'castles of 

hope. ' 

' ' Then I have readed in my picture-book ; 
And little Bella and I went to look 
For some smooth stones by the side of 
the brook. 

' ' Then I corned home, and I eated my tea, 
And I climbed up to my grandpa 's knee ; 
I'm jes' as tired as tired can be." 

Nearer and nearer the little head pressed, 
Until it drooped upon grandfather's 

breast : 
Dear little Golden Hair, "sweet be thy 

rest!" 



We are but children: the things that 

we do 
Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite 

view 
That sees all our weakness, and pities 

it too. 

God grant that when night overshadows 

our way, 
And we shall be called to account for 

the day, 
He may find it as guileless as Golden 

Hair's play! 

And, oh! when a-weary, may we be so 

blest, 
As to sink like an innocent child to our 

rest, 
And feel ourselves clasped to the Infinite 

breast. 



GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MOENING. 

A fair little girl sat under a tree, 

Sewing as long as her eyes could see; 

Then smoothed her work and folded it 
right, 

And said, ' ' Good work, good-night, good- 
night ! ' ' 

Such a number of rooks came over her 
head, 

Crying, ' ' Caw ! caw ! " on their way to 
bed. 

She said, as she watched their curious 
flight, 

"Little black things, good-night, good- 
night ! ' ' 

The horses neighed and the oxen lowed, 
The sheep 's ' ' Bleat, bleat ! ' ' came over 
the road; 



16 



LITTLE FOLK 



All seeming to say with a quiet delight, 


Bound the fields and through the skies, 


"Good little girl, good-night, good- 


They have shut their cunning eyes, 


night !" 


And have all gone to rest 




In the nest. 


She did not say to the sun "Good- 




night!" 


And the little children, too, 


Though she saw him there like a ball of 


Must do as little birds do, 


light; 


They must all go to rest 


For she knew he had God's time to keep 


In the nest. 


All over the world and never could 




sleep. 


Nothing unkind 




Can the baby find 


The tall pink foxglove bowed his head; 


When she goes to rest 


The violets curtsied and went to bed; 


In the nest. 


And good little Lucy tied up her hair, 


—Edith M. Thomas. 


And said, on her knees, her favorite 




prayer. 




And, while on her pillow, she softly lay, 


MATTIE'S WANTS AND WISHES. 


She knew nothing more till again it was 


I wants a piece of talito 


day; 


To make my doll a dress; 


And all things said to the beautiful sun, 


I doesn't want a big piece— 


"Good-morning, good-morning! our work 


A yard '11 do, I guess. 


is begun." 




—Lord Houghton. 


I wish you'd fred my needle, 




And find my fimble, too— 




I has such heaps o' sowin' 
I don't know what to do. 




BABY'S EVENING SONG. 


My Hepsey tored her apron 


Now the little white sheep, 


A tum'lin' down the stair, 


Now the little black sheep, 


And Caesar's lost his pantaloons, 


They have all gone to sleep 


And needs anozzer pair. 


In the fold. 






I wants my Maud a bonnet, 


Nothing is black, 


She hasn't none at all; 


Nothing is white 


And Fred must have a jacket, 


When the kind old Night 


His uzzer one's too small. 


Hides them all out of sight 




In the fold. 


I want's to go to grandma's— 


And the little chickens, too, 


You promised me I might; 


Must do as little lambs do, 


I know she'll like to see me — 


They must go to sleep 


I wants to go tonight. 


In the fold. 






She lets me wash the dishes, 


Nothing is hungry, 


And see in grandpa's watch — 


Nothing is cold 


Wish I'd free, four pennies, 


When it once goes to sleep 


To buy some butter-scotch. 


In the fold. 




And the sweet bright things 


I wants some newer mittens, 


That fly about on wings, 


I wish you'd knit me- some, 



LITTLE FOLK 17 


'Cause 'most my fingers freezes, 


For not a leaf does quiver, 


They leak so in the f um. 


From the Little Dream Gap in the Hills 




of Nap 


I wored it out last summer, 


To the Snoozquehannah Eiver. 


A-pullin' George's sled; 


And this is they way, 


I wish you wouldn't laugh so — 


They say, they say, 


It hurts me in my head. 


That Baby goes to Sleeptown! 


I wish I had a cooky — 


Away he flies over Bylow Bridge, 


I'm hungry 's I can be; 


Through Lullaby Lane to wander, 


If you hasn 't pretty large ones 


And on thro' the groves of Moonshine 


You'd better bring me free. 


Valley, 




By the hill of Wayoffyonder ; 




And then does the fairies' flying horse 






The sleepy Baby take up — 


THE WAY TO SLEEPTOWN. 


Until they enter at Jumpoff Center 


The Town of Sleeptown is not far, 


The Peekaboo Vale of Wakeup. 


In Timbuctoo or China, 


And this is the way, 


For it's right near by in Blinkton 


They say, they say, 


County, 


That Baby comes from Sleeptown! 


In the State of Drowsylina; 


— S. W. Foss, in Yankee Blade. 


It's just beyond the Thingumbob hills, 




Not far from Nodville Center, 




But you must be drawn thro' the Valley 




of Yawn, 


BABY'S STEATAGEM. 


Or the town you can not enter. 


Baby waking in the dark, 


And this is the way, 


Heard one night a big dog bark. 


They say, they say, 




That Baby goes to Sleeptown. 


"Let me cweep," she softly said, 




' ' In your bed, for she is f aid. ' ' 


He starts from the City of Odearme, 




Thro' Boohoo street he totters, 


Nestled close to mamma dear, 


Until he comes to Dontcry Corners 


Baby sleeps, and knows no fear. 


By the shore of the Sleeping Waters; 




Then he comes to the Johnny-Jump-Up- 


Eosy morning lights the skies, 


hills, 


And opens darling baby's eyes. 


And the nodding Toddlebom mount- 




tains, 


Just as fair as any day 


And straight does he go thro' the Vale 


Are the curls that round them play. 


of Heighbo. 




And drink from the Drowsy Fountains. 


Now when next night she waking thought 


And this is the way, 


How nice to leave her lonely cot, 


They say, they say, 




That Baby goes to Sleeptown! 


And creep into her mamma's bed — 




Oh, shall I tell you what she said? 


By Twilight Path thro' the Nightcap 




Hills 


What a little baby fib, 


The little feet must toddle, 


Trundled off her togue so glib? 


Thro ' the dewy gloom of Flyaway Forest, 




By the drowsy peaks of Noddle; 


But the truth it must be told— 


And never a sound does baby hear, 


And baby's only two years old. 



18 



LITTLE FOLK 



And the night was dark and long — 
And she didn't know 'twas wrong, 

So this is what the darling said, 
Lying in her little bed; 

Though no voice of dog was heard, 
Though no sound the night air stirred, 

Came a whisper in the dark; 
"Manama, she fink she hear dog bark." 

Who could withstand the childish plea? 
I'm certain neither you nor me. 

In mamma's bed, all in the dark, 
She creeps "coz she fink she hear dog 
bark. ' ' 
— Mrs. H. A. Brown, in Christain at 
Worlc. 



WHO'S AEKAID IN THE DAEKf 

"Oh, not I," said the owl, 

And he gave a great scowl, 

And he wiped his eye 

And fluffed his jowl, " Tu whoo! " 

Said the dog, "I bark 

Out loud in the dark, Boo-oo ! ' ' 

Said the cat, ' ' Mi-iew ! ' ' 

I'll scratch any one who 

Dare say that I do 

Peel afraid, Mi-iew ! ' ' 

"Afraid," said the mouse, 

"Of the dark in a house? 
Hear me scatter 
Whatever 's the matter 
Squeak!" 

Then the toad in his hole, 

And the bug in the ground, 
They both shook their heads 

And passed the word round. 
And the bird in the tree, 
The fish, and the bee, 
They declared all three 
That you never did see 
One of them afraid 
In the dark! 
Eut the little boy who had gone to bed 
Just raised the bedclothes and covered 
his head. — St. Nicholas. 



MAMMA'S GOOD-NIGHT. 

Mamma loosens the baby's frock, 
And takes off each little shoe and sock; 
She softly brushes the golden hair, 
And pats the shoulders, dimpled and 

bare; 
She puts on the night-gown, white and 

long, 
Humming the while an evening song: 
"Daylight is over; 

Playtime is closing; 
Even the clover 

Is nodding and dozing. 
Baby's bed shall be soft and white, 
Dear little boy, good-night! good- 
night I" 

Mamma kisses the little pink feet, 
And the tiny hands so dimpled and sweet, 
The rosy cheeks, and the forehead white, 
And the lips that prattle from morn till 

night ; 
With a last fond kiss for the golden 

crown, 
Gently and softly she lays him down. 
And in the hush that twilight brings 
She stands by her darling's bed and 
sings : 
"Over the billow 

Soft winds are sighing; 
Bound baby's pillow 
Bright dreams are flying. 
Here comes a pretty one sure to alight! 
Dear little boy, good-night! good- 
night ! ' ' 

—Eudora G. Bumstead. 



INTBY-MINTET. 

Willie and Bess, Georgie and May — 
Once, as these children were hard at play, 
An old man, hoary and tottering, came, 
And watched them playing their pretty 



He seemed to wonder, while standing 
there, 

What the meaning thereof could be— 
Aha, but the old man yearned to share 

Of the little children's innocent glee 



LITTLE FOLK 



19 



As they circled around with laugh and 

shout 
And told this rhyme at counting out : 

' ' Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, 

Apple seed and apple thorn ; 

Wire, brier, limber lock, 

Twelve geese in a flock; 

Some flew east, some flew west, 

Some flew over the cuckoo 's nest ! ' ' 

Willie and Bess, Georgie and May— 
Ah, the mirth of that summer day! 
'Twas Father Time who had come to 

share 
The innocent joy of those children there; 
He learned betimes the game they 
played 
And into their sport with them went 
he- 
How could the children have been 
afraid, 
Since little they recked whom he 
might be? 
They laughed to hear old Father Time 
Mumbling that curious nonsense rhyme 
Of "Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, 
Apple seed and apple thorn; 
Wire, brier, limber, lock, 
Twelve geese in a flock; 
Some flew east, some flew west, 
Some flew over the cuckoo 's nest ! ' ' 



Willie and Bess, Georgie and May— 
And joy of summer — where are they? 
The grim old man still standeth near 
Crooning the song of a far-off year; 
And into the winter I come alone, 

Cheered by that mournful requiem, 
Soothed by the dolorous monotone 
That shall count me off as it counted 
them — 
The solemn voice of old Father Time 
Chanting the homely nursery rhyme 
He learned of the children a summer 

morn 
When, with "apple seed and apple 

thorn ' ' 
Life was full of the dulcet cheer 
That bringeth the grace of heaven 
anear — 



The sound of the little ones hard at 

play- 
Willie and Bessie, Georgie and May. 
—Eugene Field. 



THE BABY CHOIE. 

Now all you tots sit in a row, 
'Cause you are big church choir, 

And I'll stand here to lead, you know; 

And when I wave my stick — just so — 
Then you must all sing higher." 

But Boy sang of a "choo-choo" ear, 
And Gracie of "nice weather," 

While Bob's and Bessie's "twinkle 
star ' ' 

Went wandering high and low afar— 
They couldn't keep together. 

The little leader's eyes grew wet, 
And then a smile o'erran them; 

' ' You see, mamma, they can 't do it ; 

They can't sing songs the leastest bit, 
And so they singed an anthem ! ' ' 

— Selected. 



CHOOSING A NAME. 

I have got a new-born sister; 
I was nigh the first that kissed her. 
When the nursing-woman brought her 
To papa, his infant daughter, 
How papa's dear eyes did glisten- 
She will shortly be to christen; 
And papa has made the offer, 
I shall have the naming of her. 

Now I wonder what would please her- 
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa? 
Ann and Mary, they're too common; 
Joan's too formal for a woman; 
Jane's a prettier name beside; 
But we had a Jane that died. 
They would say, if 't was Bebecca, 
That she was a little Quaker. 
Edith's pretty, but that looks 
Better in old English books; 
Ellen's left off long ago; 
Blanche is out of fashion now. 



20 



LITTLE FOLK 



None that I have named as yet 


Doctor tol' anozzer 


Are so good as Margaret. 


Great big awful lie ; 


Emily is neat and fine; 


Nose ain't out o' joint, zen, 


What do you think of Caroline? 


Yat ain't why I cry. 


How I'm puzzled and perplexed 


Mamma stays up in bedroom — 


What to choose or think of next. 


Guess he makes her sick. 


I am in a little fever 


Frow him in the gutter, 


Lest the name that I should give her 


Beat him wiz a stick. 


Should disgrace her or defame her — 




I will leave papa to name her. 


Cuddle him and love him, 


—Mary Lamb. 


Call him "Blessed sing;" 




Don't care if my kite ain't 




Got a bit of string. 


THE LOVE BEIDGE. 


Send me off with Bridget 


Two little feet upon the stairs, 

Two little arms were open wide, 
Two little hands would bar the way 


Every single day — 
"Be a good boy, Charley, 
Bun away and play." 


Trying to reach from side to side. 
With smiling glances, two brown eyes 


Said "I ought to love him!" 


Look up to mine in the softened light, 


No, I won't; no zur! 


The sweet child voice in answer tells 


Nassy cryin' baby, 


Why I must own her playful right. 


Not got any hair. 
Got all my nice kisses, 


"Dis is a love-bridge, papa says, 
Dis is the gate, my arms so wide, 

Div me a kiss as you go through, 

I'll div it back on the other side." 

I bend to give my kiss and think 


Got my place in bed — 
Mean to take my drumsticks 
And beat him on the head. 

—Charles Follen Adams. 




Of the ' ' love-bridge ' ' across life 's sea, 




Where the gate is a father's arms, 


HEE PAPA. 


Willing to open wide for me. 
When the treasures swept from my sight, 
When tossed and turned by wind and 
tide 


My papa's all dressed up today; 

He never looked so fine; 
I thought when I first looked at him 


Have passed the gate, and He will give 


My papa wasn't mine. 


Them back to me on the other side. 
—Boston Globe. 


He's got a beautiful new suit— 
The old one was so old — 




It's blue with buttons, 0, so bright 


WELCOME LITTLE STEANGEE. 


I guess they must be gold. 


(By a Displaced Three-year-old.) 


And papa's sort o' glad and sort 


Mozzer bought a baby, 


0' sad — I wonder why; 


'Ittle bitsey sing; 


And ev'ry time she looks at him 


Sinks I mos' could put him 


It makes my mamma cry. 


Frou my yubber ying. 




Ain't he awful ugly? 

Ain't he awful pink? 
"Just come down from heaven" — 


Who's Uncle Sam? My papa says 

That he belongs to him; 
But papa's joking, 'cause he knows 


Yat's a fib, I sink. 


My uncle 's name is Jim. 



LITTLE FOLK 



21 



My papa just belongs" to me 
And mamma. And I guess 

The folks are blind who can not see 
His buttoms marked U. S. 

U. S. spells us. He's ours — and yet 

My mamma can't help cry, 
And papa tries to smile at me 

And can't — I wonder why. 

—Mary Norton Bradford, in Boston 
Globe. 



THE LITTLE MILLIONAIRE. 

My little daughter climbed upon my knee 
And said, with an air of great mystery: 

"I've a secret to tell you, papa. 
But I must whisper it close in your ear, 
And don't you speak of it, papa dear, 

For there's nobody knows but mamma. 

' ' I am very rich ! Very rich indeed ! 

I have far more money than I shall need! 

I counted my money today — 
Twenty new pennies, all of them mine, 
And one little silver piece called a dime 

That I got from my Grandpapa Gray. 

"I have fourteen nickels and one three 

cent, 
Five silver quarters, though one of 
them's bent 
And, papa dear, something still bet- 
ter- 
Three big white dollars, not one of them 

old! 
And, whisper, one beautiful piece of 
gold 
That came in my Uncle Tom 's letter. ' ' 

Then she clasped her small hands, 

laughed merry and clear, 
Put her soft, rosy lips down close to my 
ear 
(Oh, so lovely the fair curly head!) : 
"Am I not very rich? Now, answer me 

true, 
Am I not richer — far richer — than you? 
Whisper, papa," she artlessly said. 



I looked at her face, so young and so 

fair; 
i thought of her life untouched by care, 

And I said, with a happy sigh, 
As my lips touched softly her waiting 

ear: 
"You are exceedingly rich, my daughter 
dear; 
Ten thousand times richer than I ! " 
—Young People. 



HER NAME. 

"I'm losted, could you find me, please?" 

Poor little frightened baby! 
The wind had tossed her golden fleece, 
The stone had scratched her dimple 

knees, 
I stooped and lifted her up with ease, 

And softly whispered, ' ' May be. ' ' 

' ' Tell me your name, my little maid, 
I can't find you without it." 

' ' My name is Shiney-Eyes, ' ' she said. 

"Yes, but your last?" She shook her 
head. 

"Up to my house, 'ej never said 
A single fing about it." 

"But, dear," I said, "what is your 
name ? ' ' 
"Why, didn't you hear me tell you? 
Dust Shiney-Eyes." A bright thought 

came; 
"Yes; when you're good; but when they 

blame 
You little one — is't just the same 
When mamma has to scold you?" 

"My mamma neber scolds," she moans, 

A little blush ensuing, 
" 'Cept when I've been a-f rowing 

stones 
And then she says" (the culprit owns), 
"Mehetable Sapphira Jones, 
What have you been a-doing?" 

— Anna F. Burnham. 



22 



LITTLE FOLK 



A LITTLE BOY'S POCKET. 

Do you know what's in my pottet? 

Such a lot of treasure in it ! 

Listen now while I bedin it; 

Such a lot of sings it hold. 

And all there is you sail be told; 
Every sing dat 's in my pottet, 
And when, and where, and how I dot it. 

First of all here's in my pottet 
A beauty shell — I picked it up; 
And here's the handle of a tup 
That somebody has broke at tea; 
The shell's a hole in it you see; 
Nobody knows that I have dot it — 
I keep it here safe in my pottet. 

And here's my ball, too, in my pottet, 
And here is my pennies, one, two free, 
That Aunt Mary gave to me; 
To-morrow day I'll buy a spade, 
When I'm out walking with the maid; 
I can't put dat here in my pottet, 
But I can use it when I've dot it. 

Here's some more sings in my pottet! 
Here's my lead, and here's my string, 
And once I had an iron ring, 
But through a hole it lost one day; 
And that is what I always say— 

A hole's the worst sing in a pottet; 

Have it mended when you've dot it. 



WHAT'S IN A NAME. 

Little girl 'at lives next door 

Never plays wive me, 
'Cause she says 'at I don't move 

In society. 

She wears jes' the finest clothes — 

Cost a lot, I guess — 
While the bestest gown I has 

Is a gingham dress. 

She has the most b'u'ful hats— 

My! but they is fine; 
An' her shoes — I guess they cost 

A dollar more than mine. 



She has ponies 'at she drives 

Almost ev'ry day; 
An' they goes so fast— oo— oo— ooh! 

Takes your bref away. 

She is rich, but I jes' bet 

'At she envies me, 
'Cause her name is Maggie Smif 
An' mine is Althea Penelope d'Arcy 
Lee. 
—Louis B. Coley, in the Criterion. 



A HINT. 

Our Daisy lay down 

In her little nightgown, 
And kissed me again and again, 

On forehead and cheek, 

On lips that would speak, 
But found themselves shut to their gain. 

Then foolish, absurd, 

To utter a word, 
I asked her the question so old, 

That wife and that lover 

Ask over and over, 
As if they were surer when told. 

There, close at her side, 

"Do you love me?" I cried; 
She lifted her golden-crowned head, 

A puzzled surprise 

Shone in her gray eyes — 
"Why, that's why I kiss you," she said. 



"WAIT DES A MINIT." 

I have a gallant lover, 

He's true as true can be; 

But it 's come to this, when I want a kiss, 

He always says to me, 

"Wait des a minit." 

He does not love another; 
His heart is all my own; 
Yet I grieve to know, when he treats 

me so, 
That mine to him has flown— 
"Wait des a minit. " 



LITTLE FOLK 



His face is very fair; 

His eyes are violet blue; 

And the light they send, as on me they 

bend, 
'Most breaks my heart in two — 
"Wait des a minit. ' 

His hair is like the sun 

That shines upon the dew; 

But he likes not girls, and he shakes 

his curls, 
With words that pierce me through— 
"Wait des a minit." 

Whenever I talk of love 
In moonlight or by day, 
He just looks at me, and in a mocking 

glee 
Eemarks, and runs away, 

"Wait des a minit." 

I'l tell you what I'll do 

To punish this young man: 

When he wants a wife, if it takes his 

life, 
I'll say to the young woman, 
"Wait des a minit. ,, 
— Sandy Broad, in Harper's Weekly. 



WATCHING FOE PAPA. 

She always stood upon the steps 

Just by the Cottage door, 
Waiting to kiss me when I came 

Each night home from the store. 

Her eyes were like two glorious stars, 
Dancing in Heaven's own blue — 

"Papa," she'd call like a wee bird, 
" I 's looten out for oo. ' ' 

Alas! how sadly do our lives 
Change as we onward roam, 

For now no birdie voice calls out 
To bid me welcome home. 

No little hands stretched out for me, 
No blue eyes dancing bright, 
No baby face peeps from the door, 
When I come home at night. 



And yet there's comfort in the thought 
That when life's toil is o'er, 

And passing through the sable flood 
I gain the brighter shore, 

My little angel at the gate, 

With eyes divinely blue, 
Will call with birdie voice, "Papa, 

I 's looten out for oo ! " 



DIPLOMACY. 

"There never was a grandma half so 

good ! ' ' 
He whispered while beside her chair he 
stood, 

And laid his rosy cheek, 
With manner very meek, 
Against her dear old face in loving mood. 

"There never was a nicer grandma born 
I know some little boys must be forlorn 

Because the've none like you; 

I wonder what I'd do 
Without a grandma's kisses night and 
morn? 

"There never was a dearer grandma — 

there ! ' ' 
He kissed her and smoothed her snow- 
white hair, 

Then fixed her ruffled cap, 
And nestled in her lap, 
While grandma, smiling, rocked her old 
arm-chair. 

' ' When I 'm a man, what lots to you I '11 

bring; 
A horse and carriage and a watch and 
ring, 

All grandmas are so nice! 
(Just here he. kissed her twice) 
And grandmas give a boy most any- 
thing. ' ' 

Before his dear old grandma could reply, 
This boy looked up and with a roguish 
eye, 

Then whispered in her ear, 
That nobody might not hear, 
"Say, grandma, have you any more 
mince pie?" —New Moon. 



24 



LITTLE FOLK 



GKANDPA'S PET. 

A bundle of sweetness, rolled up in 
blue — 
A round, curly bead tbat was golden; 
Two wee, chubby bands tbat came peep- 
ing througb 
And ne'er one thing could be bolden. 
Sueb a lump of fun as eyes never met, 
And tbe wbole went by the name of 
grandpa's pet. 

He's up in tbe morning when daylight 
breaks, 
And everyone knows all about it; 
Tbe day begins just when Don awakes, 

And none are so hardy to doubt it. 
An autocrat he, whose wish must be met, 
All must bow to tbe reign of grandpa's 
pet. 

Does he want a crown? He'll have 
grandpa's hat — 
The coal scuttle serves him to fish in; 
When he chooses to ride, he'll ride the 
cat, 
And pussy must bend in submission. 
He can not do wrong — be never did yet — 
Why, tbe wbole world was made just for 
grandpa's pet. 

Wben he makes a crow's nest of grand- 
pa's wig, 
Then the old man was ready to kiss 
him. 

He draws bis snuffbox about for a gig, 
And tbe worst word that's said is, 
"God bless him." 

All clocks in the house to his time are 
set — 

Well, there's nobody there but grandpa's 
pet. 

What a pity we can not be always young 

And rule like a king in his glory; 
What a pity that time, with his iron 
tongue, 
Must change the sweet tune of life's 
story. 
Alas! that we lose in flurry and fret 
The dream of the time we were grand- 
pa's pet. 
—Mrs. E. Easel Don, in Good Eouse- 
Tceeping. 



GOLDEN KEYS. 

A bunch of golden keys is mine, 

To make each day with gladness shine. 

' ' Good Morning ! ' '■ that 's the golden key 
That unlocks every day for me. 

When evening comes, "Good Night!" I 

say, 
And close tbe door of each glad day. 

When at tbe table, "If you please" 
I take from off my bunch of keys. 

Wben friends give anything to me, 
I'll use the little " Thanlc you!" key. 

' ' Excuse me, " " Beg your pardon, ' ' too, 
When by mistake some harm I do. 

Or if unkindly harm I've given, 

With "Forgive me" key I'll be forgiven. 

On a golden ring these keys I'll bind; 
This is its motto, "Be ye kind." 

I'll often use each golden key, 
And so a happy child I'll be. 



THE LITTLE BOY WHO EAN AWAY. 

"I'm going to run away," 
Said little Sammie Green, one day. 
' ' Then I can do just what I choose ; 
I'll never have to black my shoes, 
Or wash my face, or comb my hair. 
I'll find a place, I know, somewhere; 
And never have again to fill 
That old chip basket—so I will. 

"Good-by, mamma," he said; "good- 

by!" 
He thought his mother then would cry. 
She only said, "You going, dear?" 
And didn't shed a single tear. 
' ' There, now ! ' ' said Sammie Green, I 

know 
She does not care if I do go. 
But Bridget does. She '11 have to fill • 
That old chip basket— so she will." 



LITTLE FOLK 



25 



But Bridget only said: "Well, boy, 
You off for sure? I wish you joy." 
And Sammie 's little sister Kate, 
Who swung upon the garden gate, 
Said, anxiously, as he passed through: 
1 ' To-night, whatever will you do 
"When you can't no '"lasses spread 
At suppertime on top of bread?" 

One block from home, and Sammie 

Green 's 
"Weak little heart was full of fear. 
He thought about "Red Riding Hood," 
The wolf that met her in the wood, 
The bean stalk boy, who kept so mum 
When he heard the giant's "Fee, fo, 

fum;" 
Of the dark night and the policeman. 
Then poor Sammie homeward ran. 

Quick through the alley way he sped, 
And crawled in through the old wood- 
shed. 
The big chip basket he did fill, 
He blacked his shoes up with a will, 
He washed his face and combed his hair, 
He went up to his mother's chair, 
And kissed her twice and then he said: 
"I'd like some 'lasses top of bread ! ' ' 
—Mrs. Susan T. Perry, in Golden 
Days. 



THE LAND OF LITTLE PEOPLE. 
Far away and yet so near us 

Lies a land where all have been, 
Played beside its sparkling waters, 
Danced along its meadows green, 
Where the busy world we dwell in, 

And its noises only seem 
Like the echo of a tempest 
Or the shadow of a dream; 
And it grows not old forever, 

Sweet and young it is to-day — 
'Tis the Land of Little People, 
Where the happy children play. 

And the things they know and see there 

Are so wonderful and grand- 
Things that wiser folks and older 
Cannot know or understand. 



In the woods they meet the fairies, 

Find the giants in their caves, 
See the palaces of cloudland 
And the mermen in the waves, 
Know what all the birdies sing of, 
Hear the secrets of the flow'rs — 
For the Land of Little People 
Is another world than ours. 

Once 'twas ours; 'tis ours no longer; 

For, when nursery time is o'er, 
Through the Land of Little People 
We may wander never more. 

And our own dark world grows 
brighter, 
And we seem as young as they, 
Roaming over shore and meadow, 
Talking to the birds and flow'rs. 
But we hear their merry voices, 

And we see them at their play, 
For the Land_ of Little People 
Is a fairer world than ours. 



THE UNFINISHED PRAYER. 

"Now I lay," — repeat it, darling. 

"Lay me," lisped the tiny lips 
Of my daughter, kneeling, bending 

O'er her folded finger-tips. 

"Down to sleep"— "To sleep," she 
murmured, 

And the curly head bent low; 
' ' I pray the Lord, ' ' I gently added ; 

"You can say it all, I know." 

"Pray the Lord"— the sound came 
faintly, 

Fainter still — "My soul to keep," 
Then the tired head fairly nodded 

And the child was fast asleep. 

But the dewy eyes half opened 
When I clasped her to my breast, 

And the dear voice softly whispered, 
"Mamma, God knows all the rest." 

Oh, the trusting, sweet confiding 
Of the child heart. Would that I 

Thus might trust my Heavenly Father, 
He who hears my feeblest cry. 



26 



LITTLE FOLK 



LITTLE CHILDKEN. 

Sporting through the forest "wide, 
Playing by the waterside, 
Wandering o'er the heathy fells, 
Down within the wooded dells, 
All among the mountains wild 
Dwelleth many a little child. 

In the baron's hall of pride, 

By the poor man's dull fireside, 

'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean 

Little children may be seen, 

Like the flowers that spring up fair, 

Bright and countless everywhere. 

In the far isles of the main, 
In the desert's lone domain, 
In the savage mountain-glen, 
'Mong the tribes of swarthy men, 
Whereso'er a foot hath gone, 
Whereso'er the sun hath shone. 



On a league of peopled ground 
Little children may be found. 
Blessings on them! They in me 
Move a kindly sympathy, 
With their wishes, hopes and fears, 
With their laughter and their tears, 
With their wonder so intense, 
And their small experience. 

Little children, not. alone 
On the wide earth are ye known, 
'Mid its labors and its cares, 
'Mid its sufferings and its snares; 
Free from sorrow, free from strife, 
In the world of love and life, 
Where no sinful thing hath trod — 
In the presence of your God, 
Spotless, blameless, glorified — 
Little children, ye abide. 

—Mary Bpwitt. 



The Home and Mother 



THE ISLAND OF DEEAMS. 

Oh, I had such a pretty dream, mamma; 

Such pleasant and beautiful things, 
Of a dear little nest in the meadows of 
rest, 

Where the birdie her lullaby sings. 

A dear little stream, full of lilies, 
Crept over the green, mossy stones, 

And just where I lay its thin sparkling 
spray 
Sang sweetly in delicate tones. 

And as it flowed on toward the ocean 
Through the shadows and pretty sun- 
beams, 
Each note grew more deep, and I soon 
fell asleep, 
And was off for the Island of Dreams. 

I saw there a beautiful angel, 

"With a crown all bespangled with dew; 
She touched me and spoke, but I quickly 
awoke, 
And found then, dear mamma, 'twas 
you. 

—Ladies' Home Journal. 



ONLY ONE MOTHEE. 

Tou have only one mother, my boy, 
Whose heart you can gladden with joy 

Or cause it to ache 

Till ready to break- 
So cherish that mother, my boy. 

You have only one mother who will 
Stick to you through good and through ill 
And love you, although 
The world is your foe — 
So care for that love ever still. 



You have only one mother to pray 
That in the good path you may stay; 

Who for you won't spare 

Self-sacrifice rare — 
So worship that mother alway. 

You have only one mother to make 
A home ever sweet for your sake, 

Who toils day and night 

For you with delight — 
To help her all pains ever take. 

You have only one mother to miss 
When she has departed from this. 
So love and revere 
That mother while here — 
Sometime you won't know her dear kiss. 

You have only one mother, just one; 
Eemember that always, my son; 

None can or will do 

What she has for you. 
What have you for her ever done? 

—B. C. Bodge. 



WHEEE'S MOTHEE? 

Bursting in from school or play, 
This is what the children say; 
Trooping, crowding, big and small, 
On the threshold, in the hall— 
Joining in the constant cry, 
Ever as the days go by: 

"Where's mother?" 

From the weary bed of pain 
This same question comes again; 
From the boy with sparkling eyes, 
Bearing home his earliest prize; 
From the bronzed and bearded son, 
Perils past and honors won: 
"Where's mother?" 



28 



THE HOME AND MOTHER 



Burdened with a lonely task, 
One day we may vainly ask 
For the comfort of her face, 
For the rest of her embrace; 
Let us love her while we may, 
Well for us that we can say, 
"Where's mother?" 

Mother with untiring hands 
At the post of duty stands, 
Patient, seeking not her own, 
Anxious for the good alone 
Of the children as they cry, 
Ever as the days go by, 

"Where's mother?" 

— Good Housekeeping. 



MOTHER'S LITTLE LAD. 

He leans, caressing, at his mother's side, 
Just newly rid of girlish kilt and 
plaid — 
The long-sought triumph of his boy- 
hood's pride — 
And plans her future, mother's little 
lad. 

He dreams, impatient of his lagging 
youth, 
To conquer fate, and all her life make 
glad; 
Strong in the strength of love and fear- 
less truth — 
A dear defender, mother 's little lad. 

While on her cheek falls soft that light 
caress, 
Small weight hath care to make her 
musings sad; 
Such power is his a life to blight or 
bless ; 
And yet he is but mother's little lad! 

Whatever meed of fortune's favoring 
grace 
The fickle-hearted years may take or 
add, 
Within one steadfast heart in changeless 
place, 
He is forever mother's little lad. 
—Nannie F. Maclean, in Independent. 



SOME DAY. 

Last night, my darling, as you slept, 

I thought I heard you sigh, 
And to your little crib I crept 

And watched a space thereby; 
And then I stooped and kissed your brow, 

For, oh! I love you so! 
You are too young to know it now, 

But some time you shall know. 

Some time, when in a darkened place, 

Where others come to weep, 
Your eyes shall look upon a face 

Calm in eternal sleep; 
The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow, 

The patient smile shall show— 
You are too young to know it now, 

But some time you shall know. 

Look backward, then, into the years 

And see me here to-night— 
See, O my darling, how my tears 

Are falling as I write — 
And feel once more upon your brow 

The kiss of long ago — 
You are too young to know it now, 

But some time you shall know. 

— Eugene Field. 



OUR FIRESIDE. 

It may be under palace roof, 

Princely and wide; 
No pomp foregone, no pleasure lost, 

No wish denied; 
But if beneath the diamond's flash 

Sweet, kind eyes hide, 
A pleasant place, a happy place, 

Is our fireside. 

It may be 'twixt four lowly walls, 

No show, no pride; 
Where sorrows oftimes enter in, 

But ne'er abide.- 
Yet, if she sits beside the hearth, 

Help, comfort, guide, 
A blessed place, a heavenly place, 

Is our fireside. 

—Dinah HulocTc Craik. 



THE HOME AND MOTHER 



29 



NOBODY KNOWS BUT MOTHEK. 

Nobody knows of the work it make3 
To keep the home together, 

Nobody knows of the steps it takes, 
Nobody knows— but mother. 

Nobody listens to childish woes, 

Which kisses only smother; 
Nobody's pained by naughty blows, 

Nobody— only mother. 

Nobody knows of the sleepless care 

Bestowed on baby brother; 
Nobody knows of the tender prayer, 

Nobody — only mother. 

Nobody knows of the lesson taught 

Of loving one another; 
Nobody knows of the patience sought, 

Nobody— only mother. 

Nobody knows of the anxious fears, 
Lest darling may not weather 

The storm of life in after years, 
Nobody knows— but mother. 

Nobody kneels at the throne above 
To thank the Heavenly Father 

For that sweetest — a mother's love! 
Nobody can— but mother. 



WHAT AEE THEY DOING AT 
HOME? 

I am far from the home that was dearest 

to me 
When my heart was the child's heart, so 

fearless and free; 
But over the mountain and over the wave 
My thought reaches back with the yearn- 
ings that crave 
A whisper, a murmur. Wherever I roam 
I wonder, "Now, what are they doing at 
home?" 

Does mother still sit in the splint-bot- 
tomed chair, 

A little more snow sifted through her 
dark hair? 



Is the basket beside her with mending 

heaped high? 
And who threads her needles when I am 

not by? 
Does father drive Bess at a snail's creep- 
ing pace? 
And hang up his hat in the selfsame old 

place ? 
Do the neighbors drop in for a leisurely 

chat 
Of the fortune of this one, the trials of 

that? 
Are there tidings the village is happy to 

share 
Of some world-famous man once a merry 

boy there? 
Oh! over the hill-tops and over the foam 
I long to hear what they are doing at 

home. 

My dear little sister, so dimpled and 

brown — 
No prettier maid in this great bustling 

town — 
Is she lissome and tall, is she pliant and 

sweet, 
And fair as a lily from head unto feet? 
My mother's own daughter, as pure as a 

pearl, 
What wooer can mate with so peerless a 

girl? 
Oh, sister, whose steps have not yet 

learned to roam, 
I am fain to see what you are doing at 

home. 

I long to go back where the Yule fires 

blaze, 
To take up the tasks of the simple old 

days, 
To find my content in the old homely 

round, 
Lapped safe in the peace of a love as 

profound 
As the heart that throbs ever beneath 

the deep sea. 
But, alas! the world's fetters are bound 

about me; 
I never again can stay tranquilly there, 
Though never seemed home so divine and 

so fair, 



30 



TEE EOME AND MOTEER 



And there's pain in the questions so 

ceaseless that come, 
Oh, what are they doing my dear ones at 

home? 
— Elisabeth Chisholm, in Harper's Ba- 
zar. 



LEFT ALONE. 

It's the lonesomest house you ever saw, 
This big gray house where I stay — 

I don 't call it living at all, at all — 
Since my mother went away. 

Four long weeks ago, and it seems a 
year— 
"Gone home," so the preacher said— 
An' I ache in my breast with wanting 
her, 
An' my eyes are always red. 

I stay out of doors till. I 'm almost froze, 

'Cause every corner and room 
Seems empty enough to frighten a boy, 

And filled to the doors with gloom. 
I hate them to call me in to my meals; 

Sometimes I think I can't bear 
To swallow a mouthful of anything 

An' her not sitting up there 

A-pourin' the tea, an r passin' the things, 

An' laughing to see me take 
Two big lumps of sugar instead of. one, 

An' more than my share of cake. 

I 'm too big to be kissed, I. used to say, 
But somehow I don't feel right 

Crawling into bed as still as a mouse — 
Nobody saying good-night, 

An' tucking the clothes up under my 
chin, 
An' pushing my hair back, so; 
Things a boy makes fun of before his 
chums, 
But things that he likes, you know. 

There's no one to go to when things go 
wrong — 

She was always so safe and sure; 
Why, not a trouble could tackle a boy 

That she couldn't up an' cure. 



There are lots of women, it seems to me, 
That wouldn't be missed so much — 

"Women whose boys are about all grown 
up, 
An' old maid aunties, an' such. 

I can't make it out for the life of me 

Why she should have to go, 
An' her boy left here in this old gray 
house, 

A-needing an' wanting her so. 

I tell you the very lonesomest thing 
In this great big world to-day 

Is a big boy of ten whose heart is broke 
'Cause his mother is gone away. 

—Jean Blewett, in the Toronto Globe., 



PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE. 

All day long they come and go — 
Pittypat and Tippytoe; 

Footprints up and down the hall, 

Playthings scattered on the floor, 
Finger-marks along the wall, 
Tell-tale smudges on the door — 
By these presents you shall know 
Pittypat and Tippytoe. 

How they riot at their play! 
And a dozen times a day 

In they troop, demanding bread — 

Only buttered bread will do, 
And that butter must be spread 
Inches thick with sugar, too! 
And I never can say "No, 
Pittypat and Tippytoe ! ' ' 

Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, 
Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth; 
For (I much regret to say) 

Tippytoe and Pittypat 
Sometimes interrupt their play 
With an internecine spat; 
Fie, for shame! to quarrel so — 
Pittypat and Tippytoe! 

Oh, the thousand worrying things 
Every day recurrent brings! 

Hands to scrub and hair to brush, 
Search for playthings gone amiss, 

Many a wee complaint to hush, 



TEE EOME AND MOTHER 



31 



Many a little bump to kiss; 
Life seems one vain, fleeting show 
To Pittypat and Tippytoe! 

And when day is at an end, 
There are little duds to mend; 
Little frocks are strangely torn, 
Little shoes great holes reveal, 
Little hose but one day worn 
Eudely yawn at toe and heel! 
"Who but you could work such woe, 
Pittypat and Tippytoe? 

But when comes this thought to me: 
"Some there are that childless be," 
Stealing to their little beds, 

With a love I can not speak, 
Tenderly I stroke their heads — 
Fondly kiss each velvet cheek. 
God help those who do not know 
A Pittypat and Tippytoe! 

On the floor and down the hall, 
Eudely smutched upon the wall, 
There are proofs in every kind. 

Of the havoc they have wrought, 
And upon my heart you'd find 

Just such trade-marks, if- you 
sought ; 
Oh, how glad I am 'tis so, 
Pittypat and Tippytoe! 

— Eugene^Field. 



HOME. 



1 ' Then stay at home, my heart, and rest, 

The bird is safest in its nest; 

O'er all that flutter their wings and fly 

A hawk is hovering in the sky. 

To stay at home is best." 

— Longfellow. 
Surely a bird may do its best, 
E'en though it wanders from its nest; 
In fear of hawks I fail to learn 
'Tis the early bird that gets the worm. 

In Him confide, whose eye o'er all 
In pity notes the sparrow's fall; 
The eagle swoop from mountain peak 
Will fail to strike with cruel beak. 



Then spread thy wings and sing and fly, 
With pinions that shall flout the sky; 
An angel bright, with purest wing, 
Will guard thy flight as he hears thee 

sing. 

—P. E. T., in Saturday Review. 



AT HIS MOTHEE'S KNEE. 

Back to his boyhood's home again 

He crept like some guilty thing, 
Sick at heart and despised of men; 

As a bird with a broken wing 
Longs for its nest the leaves among, 

For the peace of that home longed he, 
And to listen once more to the simple 
song 

That he heard at his mother's knee. 

There in her lap in the dear old way 

He laid his fevered head, 
As when some childish grief held sway, 

He ran to be comforted; 
She did not believe that his heart was 
bad, 

For she could not forget, you see, 
The days when he knelt, a happy lad, 

In prayer at his mother's knee. 

Can a mother's forgiveness one's sins 
absolve? 
At a touch of that aged hand 
There sprang within him a new resolve, 

Like a glimpse of a promised land. 
Through repentant tears that fell like 
rain 
He beheld new years to be, 
And so he began life over again 
Eight there at his mother's knee. 

—New York Mercury. 



GEANDMA'S WEDDING GOWN. 

Lo! here is grandma, just stepped down 

From the picture on the wall, 
Dressed in her famous wedding gown, 

To attend the fancy ball! 
No wrinkle mars her dear, sweet face; 

She looks, with cheeks aglow, 
Just as she loked, in pearls and lace, 

Seventy years ago! 



32 



TEE SOME AND MOTEER 



No wonder she was worshiped then 

In all the countryside! 
No wonder hearts were broken when 

She wore this gown, a bride! 
And, oh! to-night she's just as fair 

As when she wore it so, 
With girdled waist and powdered hair, 

Seventy years ago! 

The satin, once of spotless white, 

Is yellowed with the years; 
The veil that fell in folds of light 

Is stained, but not with tears; 
For grandma's life was one long May, 

As free from ill and woe 
As was her perfect wedding day, 

Seventy years ago! 

To-night, in all her youth and grace, 

For all to praise and see, 
The old love-light upon her face, 

She comes to dance with me. 
Ah, rose so like the parent flower! 

Full soon our love shall know 
The joy that crowned her bridal hour, 

Seventy years ago! 
—Arthur Grissom, in Leslie's 



WHEN GEANDMA SHUTS HEE 
EYES. 

Within the chimney corner snug 

Dear grandma gently rocks, 
And knits her daughter's baby boy 

A tiny pair of socks. 
And sometimes grandma shuts her eyes 
And sings the softest lullabies. 

Across her face the happy smiles 

All play at hide and seek, 
And kiss the faint and faded rose 

That lingers on her cheek, 
While thoughts too sweet for words arise 
When dear old grandma shuts her eyes. 

Yet sometimes pictures in her face 

Have just a shade of pain, 
As golden April sunshine mingles 

With a dash of rain. 
And then perchance she faintly sighs, 
Does grandma when she shuts her eyes. 



She's growing younger every day; 

She's quite a child again, 
And those she knew in girlhood's years 

She speaks of now and then, 
And sweet old love songs feebly tries, 
Does grandma when she shuts her eyes. 

I used to wonder why her eyes 
She closed, but not in sleep, 

The while the smiles would all about 
Her wrinkled visage creep; 

But I have guessed the truth at last — 

She shuts her eyes to view the past. 



A SISTEE'S LOVE. 

A sister 's love ! a love that knows 
No earthly stain, no selfish part; 

A love pure as the love that glows 
In Heaven within an angel's heart; 
For you in early morning light — 
For you in silence of the night 
Its prayers go up to Heaven above — 
This is a sister's love. 

A love that if you faint and fall 
Beneath the burden of your cross, 

Will share your griefs and sorrows all 
And help you to retrieve the loss; 
A love all patient to endure, 
A love forever strong and sure, 
Yet meek and gentle as a dove — 
This is a sister's love. 

A love that as the years go by, 

And age and days of pain draw near, 

Still like a star that shines on high 
Will shine upon you pure and clear; 
A love no absence can estrange, 
A love no time can chill or change, 
Or from its deep foundation shove— 
This is a sister's love. 

A love that still will live when this 
Brief life has like a vision passed; 

When you shall sit enthroned in bliss 
In your celestial home at last; 
A love that will unchanging be 
Through all a glad eternity 
Part of that blessed life above — 
This is a sister's love. 

—Constantino, E. Broolcs, in Home Jour- 
nal. 



THE HOME AND MOTHER 



33 



"MOTHER." 

What visions of a happy past 

That home-like -word to me recalls; 
On list'ning ears it gently falls 

Like music far too sweet to last. 

E 'en still the sounds I often hear, 
Like echoes of a soft-toned lute, 
Sweet whispers of a voice long mute, 

Which brightened life with words of 
cheer. 

When first I gazed, an infant mild, 
I saw my heaven in her eyes; 
As mist before the sunlight flies, 

My troubles vanished when she smiled. 

As wider, farther ranged my eyes, 
And I looked on the world around, 
How strangely old seemed all sweet 
sound, 

Soft wind, bright stars and sunny skies. 

As years roll on in heedless flight, 

And I once more to heaven draw near, 
Bringing sweet trust where once was 
fear, 

And seeing all in truth 's pure light, 

I now can see that 'twas not strange 
That nothing beautiful seemed new; 
My mother's face, my earliest view, 

Reflected landscapes fairest range. 

— G. B. Glasgow, Scotland. 



SONNY, NEVER MIND. 

When I uster stub my toe 

In the rocky road, 
Mother, she could soothe my woe; 

She's the one that knowed 
How to banish my dismay 

With a word so kind. 
It stopped hurtin' when she'd say: 

' ' Sonny, never mind. ' ' 

Arnicky an' lint and things 

Couldn't stop the pain, 
But her gentle voice that rings 

Often an' again 
In my dreamin' had a charm 

Strong, though undefined. 
Jes' them words 'ud help the harm- 

' ' Sonny, never mind. ' ' 



If she only could be near 

When I stumble now, 
Maybe I could persevere 

With a placid brow— 
If she jes' could pat my head, 

As when she would bind 
Every boyish hurt, an' said: 

1 ' Sonny, never mind. ' ' 

—Washington Star. 



TIME TO COME HOME. 

"Time to come home," that's what that 

light 
At the window used to mean toward 

night — 
* ' Time for the lambs to come in from the 

cold 
To the warmth and love of the mother's 

fold!" 

That's what she used to say; and then 

She would say, when we grew up to be 
good men 

We would mind the way that our child- 
ish feet 

Were taught to come in from the mud 
of the street. 

I was the oldest, the mother's pet! 
Could that little picture be hanging yet 
On the fire-lit wall of the cozy room 
Where we gathered in from the evening 
gloom? 

Ah, that was so very long ago 
That nobody, not even she, would know 
That I am the boy who used to come 
Into the shelter of mother's room! 

I've "come home" again; I, a thing, 

not a man; 
Not even her loving eyes could scan 
In the lines of my sodden, shameful face, 
That innocent picture's boyish grace. 

So I must be off, lest I die here and 

shame 
An humble home and an honest name, 
But I'd give all the world holds dear to 

see 
If that picture still hangs in the nursery! 



34 



THE HOME AND MOTEEE 



A LIFE STORY. 

He is too young to know it now, 
But some day he will know. 

—Eugene Field. 
Above her little sufferer's bed, 

With all a mother's grace, 
She stroked the curly, throbbing head 

And smoothed the fevered face. 
* ' He does not know my love, my fears, 

My toil of heart and hand; 

But some day in the after years, 

Some day he'll understand; 

Some day he'll know 

I loved him so. 

Some day he'll understand." 

A wild lad plays his thoughtless part 

As fits his childhood's lot, 
And tramples on his mother's heart 

Of ttimes and knows it not. 
He plays among his noisy mates, 

Nor knows his truest friend; 
His mother sighs, as still she waits, 

' ' Some day he '11 comprehend ; 
The day will be 
"When he will see. 

Some day he'll comprehend." 

The strong youth plays his strenuous 
part; 
His mother waits alone, 
And soon he finds another heart 

The mate unto his own. 
She gives him up in joy and woe, 

He takes his young bride's hand, 
His mother murmurs, "Will he know 
And ever understand? 
When will he know 
I love him so; 
When will he understand?" 

The strong man fights his battling days, 

The fight is hard and grim; 
His mother's plain, old-fashioned ways 

Have little charm for him. 
The dimness falls around her years, 

The shadows 'round her stand; 
She mourns in loneliness and tears, 

"He'll never understand. 
He'll never know 
I loved him so; 

He'll never understand." 



A bearded man of serious years 

Bends down above the dead, 
And rains the tribute of his tears 

Over an old, gray head. 
He stands the open grave above, 

Amid the mourning bands; 

And now he knows his mother's love, 

And now he understands. 

Now doth he know 

She loved him so. 

And now he understands. 

—Sam Walter Foss. 



DEAR MOTHER-HEART! 

Dear Mother-eyes 
That watched while other eyes were 

closed in sleep, 
That o'er my sliding steps were wont to 
weep— 
Are ye now looking from the starry 
skies, 
With clearer spirit-vision, love more deep, 
Undimmed by tears, while I my vigil 
keep— 

Dear Mother-eyes? 

Dear Mother-hands 
That toiled when other hands inactive 

were; 
That, clasping mine, constrained me oft 
to prayer 
For grace to run the way of God's 
commands — 
Are ye now resting, or in realms more 

fair 
Still find ye some sweet mode to minis- 
ter — 

Dear Mother-hands? 

Dear Mother-heart 
That felt the good where others found 

the ill, 
That loathed the sin, yet loved the sinner 
still, 
And charmed his soul to choose the 
better part; 
Farewell a moment's fleeting space until 
God reunites us when it be His will — 

Dear Mother-heart. 
— John Henderson, in Chambers's Jour- 
nal. 



THE HOME AND MOTHER 



35 



THE GOODEST MOTHEE. 

Evening was falling, cold and dark, 
And people hurried along the way 
As if they were longing soon to mark 
Their own home candle's cheering ray. 

Before me toiled in the whirling wind 
A woman with bundles great and small, 
And after her tugged, a step behind, 
The Bundle she loved the best of all. 

A dear little rolly-poly boy 
With rosy cheeks and jacket blue, 
Laughing and chattering full of joy, 
And here 's what he said — I tell you true : 
"You're the goodest mother that ever 

was. ' ' 
A voice as clear as a forest bird's; 
And I'm sure the glad young heart had 

cause 
To utter the lovely words. 

Perhaps the woman had worked all day, 
Washing or scrubbing; perhaps she 

sewed ; 
I knew, by her weary footfall's way, 
That life for her was an uphill road. 

But here was a comfort, children dear, 
Think what a comfort you might give 
To the very best friend you can have 

here, 
The lady fair in whose house you live, 

If once in a while you'd stop and say — 
In task or play for a moment pause, 
And tell her in sweet and winning way, 
"You're the goodest mother that ever 



HEE LITTLE BOY. 

"Always a little boy, to her," 
No matter how old he's grown. 

Her eyes are blind to the strands of 
gray; 
She's deaf to his manly tone. 

His voice is the same as the day he 



"What makes the old cat purr? ; 
Ever and ever he's just the same— 
A little boy, to her. 



"Always a little boy, to her." 

She heeds not the lines of care 
That furrow his face; to her it is still 

As it was in his boyhood, fair. 
His hopes and his joys are as dear to her 

As they were in his small-boy days. 
He never changes; to her he's still 

"My little boy," she says. 

"Always a little boy, to her." 

And to him she's the mother fair, 
With the laughing eyes and the cheering 
smile 

Of the boyhood days back there. 
Back there, somewhere in the mist of 
years— 

Back there with the childish joy. 
And to her he is never the man we see, 

But always "my little boy." 

"Always a little boy, to her." 

The ceaseless march of the years 
Goes rapidly by, but its drumbeats die 

Ere ever they reach her ears. 
The smile that she sees is the smile of 
youth, 

The wrinkles are dimples of joy. 
His hair, with its gray, is as sunny as 
May. 

He is always "her little boy." 
— Josh Wink, in Baltimore American. 



CHILD AND MOTHEE. 

O, Mother-My-Love, if you'll give me 

your hand 
And go where I ask you to wander, 
I will lead you away to a beautiful 

land— 
The dreamland that's waiting out 

yonder. 
We'll walk in the sweet-posie garden out 

there, 
Where moonlight and starlight are 

streaming, 
And the flowers and the birds are filing 

the air 
With the fragrance and music of 

dreaming. 



36 



THE HOME AND MOTHER 



There'll be no little, tired-out boy to 
undress, 
No questions nor cares to perplex you; 
There'll be no bruises or bumps to 
caress, 
Nor patching of stockings to vex you. 
For I'll rock you away on the silver-dew 
stream 
And sing you asleep when you're 
weary, 
And no one shall know of our beautiful 
dream 
But you and your own little dearie. 

And when I am tired I'll nestle my head 
In the bosom that's soothed me so 
often, 
And the wide-awake stars shall sing in 
my stead 
A song which my dreaming shall 
soften 
So, Mother-My-Love, let me take your 
dear hand, 
And away through the starlight we'll 
wander — 
Away through the mist to the beautiful 
land— 
The dreamland that's waiting out 
yonder ! 

— Eugene Field. 



MOTHER'S EOOM. 

I'm awfully sorry for poor Jack Roe; 
He's that boy that lives with his aunt, 

you know; 
And he says his house is filled with 

gloom 
Because it has got no "mother's 

room. ' ' 
I tell you what, it is fine enough 
To talk of "boudoirs" and such fancy 

stuff, 
But the room of rooms that seems best 

to me, 
The room where I'd always rather be, 
Is mother's room, where a fellow can rest 
And talk of the things his heart loves 



What if I do get dirt about, 

And sometimes startle my aunt with a 

shout? 
It is mother's room, and, if she don't - 

mind, 
To the hints of others I 'm always blind. - 
Maybe I lose my things— what then? 
In mother's room I find them again. 
And I've never denied that I litter the 

floor 
With marbles and tops and many thing3 

more; 
But I tell you, for boys with a tired 

head, 
It is joly to rest on mother's bed. 

Now poor Jack Roe, when he visits me, 
I take him to mother's room, you see, 
Because it's the nicest place to go 
When a fellow's spirits are getting low. 
And mother, she 's always kind and sweet, 
And there's always a smile poor Jack to 



And somehow the sunbeams seem to glow 
More brightly in mother's room, I know, 
Than anywhere else, and you '11 never find 

gloom 
Or any old shadow in mother's room. 
—New York World. 



MY MOTHER. 

Often into folly straying, 

Oh, my mother! how I've grieved her! 
Oft I've heard her for me praying, 
Till the gushing tears relieved her. 
And she gently rose and smiled, 
Whispering, "God will keep my child.' ' 

She was youthful then, and sprightly, 
Fondly on my father leaning,' 

Sweet she spoke, her eyes shone brightly 
And her words were full of meaning; 

Now, an Autumn leaf decayed, 

I, perhaps, have made it fade. 

But, whatever ills betide thee, 
Mother, in them all I share; 

In thy sickness watch beside thee, 
And beside thee kneel in prayer. 

Best of mothers! on my breast 

Lean thy head, and sink to rest. 



TEE SOME AND MOTEER 



37 



TO MY MOTHER. 

Eyes of brown my Mother has, 

Dark and clear; , 
Rich the auburn of her hair, 
Which the silver gathering there 

Makes more dear. 

On her brow once smooth and fair, 

I can trace 
Lines of care and anxious thought, 
But the deeper they are wrought 

On her face, 

Still more beautiful and blest 

Does she seem. 
Shines her soul's unselfish light 
Lake the radiant image bright 

Of a dream. 

In her hands, now worn with toil, 

I can see 
Patient deeds of thoughtfulnesss, 
Untold labors wrought to bless, 

Lovingly. 

Mother: these poor words of mine 

Little tell: 
This my heart would fondly say, 
That thy daughter far away 

Loves thee well. 

Wishes for a gift of gifts; 

But none other 
Than of love, a wealth unmeasured, 
Does she bring, all sweetly treasured, 

For her mother. — L. A. F. 



TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS 
MOTHER. 

Love thy mother, little one, 
Kiss and clasp her neck again— 
Hereafter she may have a son 
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
Love thy mother, little one. 

Gaze upon her living eyes, 
And mirror back her love for thee — 
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 
To meet them when they can not see. 
Gaze upon her living eyes. 



Press her lips the while they glow 
With love that they have often told— 
Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, 
And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
Press her lips the while they glow. 

Oh, revere her raven hair, 
Although it be not silver-gray — 
Too early Death, led on by Care, 
May snatch some one dear lock away. 
Oh, revere her raven hair. 

Pray for her at eve and morn, 
That Heaven may long the stroke def er- 
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 
When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
Pray for her at eve and morn. 

—Thomas Hood. 



THE OLD FOLKS' LONGING. 

Don 't go to the theater, lecture or ball, 

But stay in your room to-night; 
Deny yourself to the friends that call, 

And a good long letter write— 
Write to the sad old folks at home, 

Who sit, when the day is done, 
With folded hands and downcast eyes, 

And think of the absent one. 

Don't selfishly scribble, "Excuse my 
haste, 
I 've scarcely the time to write, ' ' 
Lest their brooding thoughts go wander- 
ing back 
To many a by-gone night, 
When they lost their needed sleep and 
rest, 
And every breath was a prayer 
That God would leave their little babe 
To their tender love and care. 

Don't let them feel that you've no more 
need 

Of their love and council wise, 
For the heart grows strongly sensitive 

When age has dimmed the eyes; 
It might be well to let them believe 

You never forget them quite — 
That you deem it a pleasure when far 
away, 

Long letters home to write. 



38 



THE HOME AND MOTHER 



Don't think that the young and giddy 
friends, 

"Who make your pastime gay, 
Have half the anxious thoughts for you 

That the old folks have to-day. 
The duty of writing do not put off, 

Let sleep or pleasure wait, 
Lest the letter for which they waited and 
longed 

Be a day or an hour too late. 

For the sad old folks at home, 
With locks fast turning white, 

Are longing to hear of the absent one, 
So write them a letter to-night. 

—Portland Oregonian. 



MY MOTHEE. 

"A woman lived, a woman died," 
So said the world, and cried 

What of it? 
The flower blooms, the tendril twines, 
The storm cloud bursts; the sun still 
shines 

Above it. 

"The mountains rear their lofty crest, 
Between, the valleys peaceful rest 

Unshaden; 
With man, the battle still is rife; 
What is't to us because a life 

It takes?" 
If life is but three score and ten, 
It matters very little when 

It closes; 
If to our life earth is the bound, 
We mind not when we deck a mound 

With roses. 
But not by measure do we gauge, 
Nor by the dial fix the age 

Of spirit. 
An earthly form is gone, but still, 
To love, each passing moment will 

Endear it. 

A woman lived, and I am glad. 
A woman died, and I am sad, 

No other 
Can ever fill, as years may fly, 
The place so long held sacred by 

My mother. 



Across the years she speaks to me, 
Her face across the years I see; 

I love her, 
Not did, but do, and more and more 
Till I her form on fairer shore 

Discover. 
— F. A. Bisbee, in Philadelphia Press. 



KISSED HIS MOTHER. 

She sat on the porch in the sunshine; 
As I went down the street — 

A woman whose hair was silver, 

But whose face was blossom-sweet, 

Making me think of a garden- 
Where, in spite of frost and snow, 

Of bleak November weather, 
Late fragrant lilies grow. 

I heard a footstep behind me, 

And a sound of a merry laugh, 
And I knew the heart it came from 

Would be like a comforting staff 
In the time and the hour of trouble, 

Hopeful, and brave, and strong, 
One of the hearts to lean on 

When we think that things go wrong. 

I turned at the click of the gate-latch, 

And met his manly look; 
A face like his gives me pleasure, 

Like the page of a pleasant book. 
It told of a steadfast purpose, 

Of a brave and daring will — 
A face with a promise in it 

That God grant the years fulfill. 

He went up the pathway singing; 

I saw the woman's eyes 
Grow bright with a wordless welcome, 

As sunshine warms the skies, 
' ' Back again, sweetheart mother ! ' ' 

He cried, and bent to kiss 
The loving face that was lifted 

For what some mothers miss. 

That boy will do to depend on; 

I hold that this is true: 
From iads in love with their mothers 

Our bravest heroes grew. 



THE HOME AND MOTHER 



39 



Earth's grandest hearts have been loving 


"But grandma will be very old, 


hearts 


And only in the way, she fears ; ' ' 


Since time and earth began, 


His chubby arms her neck enfold, 


And the boy who kissed his mother 


His earnest eyes are full of tears, 


Is every inch a man! 


"And oft we give the old love for the 


—Eben E. Bex ford. 


new ! ' ' 




"But, grandma," said he, "I'll take 




care of you ! ' ' 


GRANDMA'S BOY. 


I '11 build for you a house so fine 


"Her little boy grows up so fast," 


And you shall have six easy chairs, 


Said grandma, "that some sunny day 


Dozens of servants when you dine, 


He '11 wake and be a man at last, 


And lots of comforts everywheres ! ' ' 


And wander from her far away; 


"While grandma smiled her knitting 


Oh, then, what shall his poor old grandma 


through, 


do?" 


"Don't fret," said he, "for I'll take 


"Don't worrry," said he, "I'll take 


care of you ! ' ' 


care of you ! ' ' 






Dear grandma softly shades her eyes— 


"I fear her boy may soon forget," 


The sunlight, maybe, makes them 


Sighed grandma, ' ' those who loved him 


weep; 


here, 


Close to her heart her darling lies, 


And leave them with one scarce regret, 


Boeked in a calm and gentle sleep, 


Maybe without one sigh or tear." 


And kisses fall upon the lips so true 


A tender look beamed in his eyes of blue ; 


That said: "Don't worry; I'll take care 


He whispered, "Grandma, I'll take care 


of you!" 


of you ! ' ' 


—George Cooper, in the Independent. 



Christmas -Tide 



A VISIT FEOM ST. NICHOLAS. 

'Twas the night before Christmas, when 

all through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a 

mouse ; 
The stockings were hung by the c himn ey 

with care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be 

there ; 
The children were nestled all snug in 

their beds, 
While visions of sugar-plums danced 

through their heads; 
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my 

cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long 

winter's nap, 
"When out on the lawn arose such a 

clatter, 
I sprang from my bed to see what was 

the matter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the 

sash: 
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen 

snow 
Gave a luster of midday to objects below 
When what to my wondering eyes should 

appear 
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny 

reindeer, 
With a little old driver, so lively and 

quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick! 
More rapid than eagles in coursers they 

came, 
And he whistled and shouted, and called 

them by name; 
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, 

Prancer ! now, Vixen ! 
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and 

Blitzen! 



To the top of the porch, to the top of the 

wall; 
Now dashaway, dash away, dash away 

all!" 
As dry leaves that before the wild hurri- 
cane fly, 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount 

to the sky, 
So up to the housetop the coursers they 

flew, 
With the sleigh full of toys and St. 

Nicholas, too, 
And then in a twinkling I heard on the 

roof, 
The prancing and pawing of each little 

hoof. 
As I drew in my head and was turning 

around, 
Down the chimney Santa Claus came with 

a bound. 
He was dressed all in fur from his head 

to his foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnished with 

ashes and soot; 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his 

back, 
And he looked like a peddler just open- 
ing his pack. 
His eyes, how they twinkled ! his dimples, 

how merry! 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like 

a cherry; 
His droll little mouth was drawn up like 

a bow, 
And the beard on his chin was as white 

as the snow. 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his 

teeth, 
And the smoke it encircled his head like 

a wreath. 
He had a broad face and a little round 

belly, 



42 



CHRISTMAS-TIDE 



That shook when he laughed like a bowl 

full of jelly. 
He was chubby and plump— a right jolly 

old elf — 
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite 

of myself. 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his 

head 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to 

dread. 
He spake not a word, but went straight 

to his work, 
And filled all the stockings; then turned 

with a jerk, 
And laying his finger aside of his nose, 
And giving a ncd, up the chimney he 

rose. 
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave 

a whistle, 
And away they all flew like the down of 

a thistle; 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out 

of sight; 
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a 

good-night ! ' ' 

— Clement C. Moore. 



CHEISTMAS BELLS. 

I heard the bells on Christmas day 
Their old familiar carols play, 

And wild and sweet 

The words repeat 
Of "Peace on earth, good will to men." 

And thought how, as the day had come, 
The belfries of all Christendom 

Now roll along 

The unbroken song 
Of "Peace on earth, good will to men." 

Till ringing, singing, on its way, 

The world revolved from night to day, 

A voice, a chime, 

A chant sublime, 
Of "Peace on earth, good will to men." 

But in despair I bowed my head— 
"There is no peace on earth," I said; 

Por hate is strong, 

And mocks the song 
Of "Peace on earth, good will to men." 



Then pealed the bells, more loud and 

deep: 
' ' God is not dead ; nor doth He sleep ! 
The Wrong 'shall fail, 
The Eight prevail, 
"With 'Peace on earth, good will to 
men.' " —Longfellow. 



I SAW THBEE SHIPS. 

(An old English Carol.) 
I saw three ships come sailing in, 
On Christmas day, on Christmas day; 
I saw three ships come sailing in 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

And what was in those ships all three, 
On Christmas day, on Christmas day? 
And what was in those ships all three, 
On Christmas day in the morning? 

Our Saviour Christ and His Lady, 
On Christmas day, on Christmas day; 
Our Saviour Christ and His Lady, 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

Pray whither sailed those ships all three, 
On Christmas day, On Christmas day? 
Pray whither sailed those ships all three, 
On Christmas day in the morning? 

O they sailed into Bethlehem, 
On Christmas day, on Christmas day; 
O they sailed into Bethlehem, 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

And all the bells on earth shall ring, 
On Christmas day, on Christmas day ; 
And all the bells on earth shall ring, 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

And all the angels in heaven shall sing, 
On Christmas day, on Christmas day; 
And all the angels in heaven shall sing, 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

And all the souls on earth shall sing, 
On Christmas day, on. Christmas day ; 
And all the souls on earth shall sing, 
On Christmas day in the morning;. 



CHRISTMAS-TIDE 



43 



Then let us all rejoice amain, 
On Christmas day, on Christmas day; 
Then let us all rejoice amain, 
On Christmas day in the morning. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

"Glory to God in the highest, and on 

earth peace 
Good will toward men." 

' ' And all the angels in heaven shall sing 
On Christmas day, 

On Christmas day; 
And all the angels in heaven shall sing 
On Christmas day 

In the morning." 

When Christmas morning comes, they say, 
The whole world knows it's Christmas 

day; 
The very cattle in the stalls 
Kneel when the blessed midnight falls. 
And all the night the heavens shine 
With luster of a light divine. 
Long ere the dawn the children leap 
With "merry Christmas" in their sleep; 
And dream about the Christmas tree, 
Or rise, their stockings filled to see. 
Swift come the hours of joy and cheer, 
Of loving friend and kindred dear; 
Of gifts and bounties in the air, 
Sped by the "merry Christmas" prayer. 
While through it all, so sweet and 

strong, 
Is heard the holy angel's song: 
"Glory be to God above; 
On earth be peace and helpful love." 
And on the streets, or hearts within, 
The Christmas carolings begin. 

Waken, Christian children, 

Up and let us sing 
With glad voices the praises 

Of our new-born King. 

Come, nor fear to seek Him, 
Children though we be; 

Once He said of children: 
"Let them come to Me." 



Haste we, then, to welcome 
With a joyous lay 

Christ, the King of glory, 
Born for us to-day. 



IF I WERE SANTA CLAUS. 

(For three pupils.) 
If I were Santa Claus I'd go 
To every fireside, high or low; 
I'd bring sweet joy to weeping eyes; 
I'd carry dolls of wondrous size 
To little girls in every land; 
And every toy that could be planned 
I'd furnish to the boys, brand new, 
If I were Santa Claus— would you? 

If I were Santa Claus I'd pay 
A visit to the house each day; 
I'd come and mend the broken toys; 
I 'd kiss the little girls and boys 
And fill their stockings every night, 
And give them dreams of rare de- 
light; 
All the good I could I'd do, 
If I were Santa Claus— would you? 

If I were Santa Claus I 'd seek 

To help the poor and raise the weak; 

When earth was white, when earth 

was green, 
My jolly nose would still be seen; 
I'd scatter smiles like roses fair; 
Ah! I would make it everywhere 
Bright Christmas time the whole year 

through, 
If I were Santa Claus— would you? 



IF YOU'RE GOOD. 

Sata Claus '11 come tonight, 

If you 're good. 
And do what you know is right, 

As you should; 
Down the chimney he will creep, 
Bringing you a woolly sheep, 
And a doll that goes to sleep, 
If you're good. 



44 



CHRISTMAS-TIDE 



Santa Claus will drive his sleigh 

Thro' the wood, 
But he'll come around this way, 

If you're good. 
"With a wind-up bird that sings, 
And a puzzle made of rings— 
Jumping- jacks and funny thigs— 

If you're good. 
He will bring you cars that "go," 

If you're good. 
And a rocking-horsey— oh! 

If he would! 
And a dolly, if you please, 
That says ' ' Mamma ! ' ' when you squeeze 
It — he'll bring you one of these, 

If you're good. 

Santa grieves when you are bad, 

As he should, 
But it makes him very glad 

When you're good. 
He is wise, and he's a dear; 
Just do right, and never fear; 
He'll remember you each year, 

If you're good. 

— St. Nicholas. 



JIMMIEBOY'S LETTEE TO SANTA 
CLAUS. 

Dear Santa Clause, if you could bring 
A patent doll to dance and sing, 
A five-pound box of caramels, 
A set of reins with silver bells; 

An Elephant that roars and walks, 
A Brownie doll that laughs and talks, 
A humming top that I can spin, 
A desk to keep my treasures in; 

A boat or two that I can sail, 
A dog to bark and wag his tail, 
A pair of little bantam chicks, 
A chest of tools, a box of tricks; 

A scarlet suit of soldier togs, 

A spear and net for catching frogs, 

A bicycle and silver watch, 

A pound or two of butterscotch; 



A small toy farm with lots of trees, 
A gun to load with beans and pease, 
An organ and a music-box, 
A double set of building-blocks — 

If you will bring me these, I say, 
Before the coming Christmas day, 
I sort of think, perhaps, that I'd 
Be pretty nearly satisfied. 

—Harpers Young People. 



LITTLE JIM. 

It was Christmas Eve; and the lighted 

street 
Be-echoed the tread of hurrying feet, 
Of multitudes filled with the tender 

mirth 
That blesses the time of the Saviour's 

birth. 

There were women, men and sweet little 

girls 
With their rosy cheeks and fluttering 

curls; 
While the stores with urchins seemed all 

alive, 
Bushing here and there like bees in a 

hive. 

The pavements sparkled with an icy 

glare, 
And a wintry chill was in all the air; 
But never a thought for the cold had 

Jim, 
Eor with joy his cup was full to the 

brim. 

'Tis true his fingers were aching with 

cold; 
His jacket was thin and ragged and old, 
No place for his head in the bitter night j 
Yet Jim's little heart was full of delight. 

He had heard of Santa Claus. Who has 

not? 
But Jim knew more — the very spot 
Where. he lives; and he was going that 

night 
To see if the wondrous story was right. 



CHRISTMAS-TIDE 



45 



Now, Jim had in mind a mansion of 

stone, 
Towering high on a corner alone; 
From every window a glare of light, 
Bidding defiance to cold and night. 

So he trudged along o'er the ice and 

snow; 
And a gay little tune he whistled low, 
Till he reached the house that he sought 

at last, 
While a ragged stocking his hand held 

fast. 

Then, mounting the doorstep, a string he 

took, 
Of the silver handle he made a hook; 
Then he pinned a paper fast to the toe, 
Or over the hole where the toe would go. 

You will smile at Jim's poor letter, I 

fear: 
"Deer Mister Santa, I know you live 

here, 
I hope you won't mind cause I've come 

to see 
If you had not something for boys like 



"I guess you have, so please put it in 

here, 
But if you haven't, I'll wait till nest 

year. 
But just nothing at all seems kinder 

slim, 
I hope there'll be something for little 

Jim. ' ' 

Then, sitting down on the step in the 

cold, 
He watched the lights shining cheery and 

bold; 
"While the snowflakes, falling swiftly and 

white, 
Made him a mantle, soft, fleecy and 

light. 

Then he fell asleep and knew nothing 

more; 
But his stocking still bravely waved by 

the door, 



And the snow, with gentle but deadly 

hand, 
Still wrapped him with silvery fold and 

band. 

But somebody came ere the night was 

gone, 
And found Jim's message the stocking 

upon; 
And little Jim woke in a lovely room, 
On a downy couch 'mid dainty perfume. 

And looking up in a strong, manly face, 
He said, with a child's all unconscious 

grace, 
"You're Santa, I s'pose, and I thank 

you so; 
But I never asked to come in you know. 

"I only thought that mayhap you could 

find 
Some little thing that you wouldn't much 

mind 
Giving away to a poor boy like me, 
I've never had Christmas — never, you 



"What? Stay here always? Well, then 

it's all true, 
And Santa Claus, yes, sir, I know he's 

you; 
And, if this isn't all a dream, I'll stay; 
If 'tis, I hope it will never come day." 

And dear little children everywhere, 
I know you are glad little Jim is there, 
And that he has found a Santa Claus, 

too, 
A father to love him and pet him like 

you. —F. E. Leighton. 



DANCE OF THE MONTHS. 

The New Year comes in with shout and 

laughter, 
And see, twelve months are following 

after ; 
First, January all in white, 
And February, short and bright; 
See breezy March go tearing round; 
But tearful April makes no sound. 



46 



CHRISTMAS-TIDE 



May brings a pole with flowers crowned, 
And June strews roses on the ground. 
A pop! a bang! July comes in; 
Says August, ' ' What a dreadful din ! ' ' 
September brings her golden sheaves; 
October waves her pretty leaves; 
While pale November waits to see 
December bring the Christmas tree. 
They join their hands to make a ring, 
And as they dance they merrily sing, 
' ' Twelve months we are, you see us here; 
We make the circle of the year; 
We dance and sing and children hear; 
We wish you all a glad New Year. ' ' 

— Exchange. 



HIS BIRTHDAY. 

It is His birthday— His, the Holy Child! 
And innocent childhood blossoms now 

anew, 
Under the dropping of celestial dew 
Into its heart, out of this heavenlier 

Flower, 
That penetrates the lowliest roof-tree 

bowe^ 
With fragrance of an Eden undefiled! 
O happy children, praise Him in your 

mirth — 
The Son of God born with you on the 

earth ! 

It is His birthday— His, in whom our 

youth 
Becomes immortal. Nothing good, or 

sweet, . 

Or beautiful, or needful to complete 
The being that He shares, shall suffer 

blight; 
All that in us His Father can delight, 
He saves, He makes eternal as His truth, 
Praise Him for one another, loyal 

friends ! 
The friendship he awakens, never ends. 

It is His birthday— and this world of 
ours 
Is a new earth, since He has dwelt 

therein ; 
Is even as heaven, since One Life with- 
out sin 



Made it a home; His voice is in the 

air; 
His face looks forth from beauty 

everywhere ; 
His breath is sweetness at the soul of 

flowers : 
And in Him— joy beyond all joy of 

these— 
Man wakes to glorious possibilities! 

It is His birthday— and our birthday, 

too! 
Humanity was one long dream of Him, 
Until He came; with fitful glow, and 

dim, 
The altars heavenward smoked from 

vague desire — 
Despair half stifling aspiration's fire- 
He is man's lost ideal, shinging through 
This life of ours, whereinto floweth 

His; — 
God, interblent with human destinies. 



It is His birthday— His, the only One 
Who ever made life's meaning wholly 

plain; 
Dawn is He to our night! No longer 

vain 
And purposeless our ownward-strug- 

gling years; 
The Hope He bringeth overfloods our 

fears— 
Now do we know the Father, through the 

Son! 
O earth, O heart, be glad on this glad 

morn! 
God is with man! Life, Life to us in 

born ! 

—Lucy Larcom. 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

There's a song in the air! 
There 's a star in the sky ! 
There's a mother's deep prayer 
And a baby's low cry! 
And the star rains its fire with the Beau- 
tiful sing, 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a 
King. 



CHRISTMAS-TIDE 



47 



There 's a tumult of joy 


Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful 


'er the wonderful birth, 


sing 


For the virgin's sweet boy 


In the homes of the nations that Jesus is 


Is the Lord of the earth. 


King. 


Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beau- 




tiful sing, 


"We rejoice in the light, 


For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a 


And we echo the song 


King. 


That comes down through the night 




From the heavenly throng 


In the light of that star 


Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they 


Lie the ages impearled; 


bring, 


And that song from afar 


And we greet in His cradle our Saviour 


Has swept over the world. 


and King. 




— Josiah Gilbert Holland. 



Right Condudt and Kind Words 



IF WE KNEW. 

If we knew what forms were fainting 

For the shade that we should fling, 
If we knew what lips were parching 

For the water we should bring, 
We would haste with eager footsteps, 

We would work with willing hands, 
Bearing cups of cooling water, 

Planting rows of shading palms. 

If we knew when friends around us 

Closely press to say "good-bye," 
Which among the lips that kiss us, 

First should 'neath the daisies lie, 
We would clasp our arms around them, 

Looking on them through our tears; 
Tender words of love eternal 

We would whisper in their ears. 

If we knew what lives were darkened 

By some thoughtless words of ours, 
Which had ever lain among them 

Like the frost among the flowers, 
Oh! with what sincere repentings, 

With what anguish of regret, 
While our eyes were overflowing, 

We would say "Forgive! Forget." 

If we knew. Alas and do we 

Ever care to seek or know 
Whether bitter herbs or flowers 

In our neighbor's garden grow? 
God forgive us! lest hereafter 

Our hearts break to hear Him say: 
Careless child, I never knew you; 

From my presence flee away. 



GOOD TEMPEE. 

There's not a cheaper thing on earth, 

Nor yet one half so dear; 
'Tis worth more than distinguished bith, 

Or thousands gained a year. 
It lends a day a new delight, 

'Tis virtue's firmest shield; 
And adds more beauty to the night 

Than all the stars can yield. 



It maketh poverty content, 

To sorrow whispers peace; 
It is a gift from Heaven sent, 

For mortals to increase. 
It meets you with a smile at morn, 

It lulls you to repose; 
A flower for peer and peasant born, 

An everlasting rose. 

A charm to banish grief away — 

To snatch the brow from care; 
Turn tears to smiles, make dullness gay, 

Spread gladness everywhere. 
And yet 'tis sweet as summer dew 

That gems the lily's breast; 
A talisman for love as true 

As ever man possessed. 

What may this wondrous spirit be, 

With power unheard before — 
This charm, this bright amenity? 

Good temper — nothing more. 
Good temper — 'tis the choicest gift 

That woman homeward brings, 
And can the poorest peasant lift 

To bliss unknown to kings. 



WANTED. 

A boy who is cheerful 

When asked to split wood, 
Or run on an errand 

When he doesn 't feel very good : 
Who doesn't say, "Why not?" 

When told not to do this, 
That, or the other, 

But make it his business 
To mind father and mother. 

A girl who will work 

For the sake of others; 
Who is thoughtful and kind 

To her sisters and brothers; 
One who is not selfish 

Or rude in her ways, 
Who doesn't keep quarreling 

When she works or plays. 



50 



EIGHT CONDUCT AND KIND WORDS 



IF. 

If you are sighing for a lofty work, 
If great ambitions dominate your 
mind, 
Just watch yourself and see you do not 
shirk 
The common little ways of being kind. 

If you are dreaming of a future goal, 
When crowned with glory men shall 
own your power, 
Be careful that you let no struggling 
soul 
Go by unaided in the present hour. 

If you are moved to pity for the earth, 
And long to aid it, don't look so high, 

You pass some poor dumb creature faint 
with thirst, 
All life is equal in the eternal eye. 

If you would help to make the wrong 
things right, 
Begin at home; there lies a limetime's 
toil. 
Weed your own garden fair for all men's 
sight, 
Before you plan to fill another's soil. 

God chooses His own leaders in the 
world, 
And from the rest He asks but willing 
hands, 
As mighty mountains into plaee are 
hurled, 
While patient tides may only shape the 



—Ellla Wheeler Wilcox, in New Yorlc 
Journal. 



NOTHING IS LOST. 

Nothing is lost — the drop of dew 

Which trembles on the leaf or flower 
Is but exhaled, too fall anew 

In summer's thunder shower; 
Perchance to shine within the bow 

That fronts the sun at fall of day; 
Perchance to sparkle in the flow 

Of fountains far away. 

Nothing is lost— the tiniest seed 

By wild birds borne or breezes blown 
Pinds something suited to its need, 
Wherein 'tis grown and grown. 



The language of some household song, 
The perfume of some cherished flower, 

Though gone from outward sense, belong 
To memory's after hour. 
******* 

So with our words — or harsh or kind — 
Uttered; they are not all forgot; 

They have their influence on the mind- 
Pass on, but perish not. 

So with our deeds, for good or ill, 

They have their power scarce under- 
stood; 

Then let us use our better will 
To make them rife with good. 

—Nellie M. Ward. 



CONSOLATION. 

When Molly came home from the party 
to-night — 
The party was out at nine— 
There were traces of tears in her bright 
blue eyes 
That looked mournfully up to mine. 

For some one had saiu, she whispered to 
me, 
With her face on my shoulder hid, 
Some one had said (there were sobs in 
her voice), 
That they didn't like something she 
did. 

So I took my little girl up on my knee— 
I am old and exceedingly wise — 

And I said: "My dear, now listen to 
me; 
Just listen and dry your eyes. 

"This world is a difficult world, indeed, 
And people are hard to suit, 

And the man who plays on the violin 
Is a bore to the man, with the flute. 

"And I myself have often thought 
How very much better 'twould be 

If every one of the folks that I know 
Would only agree with me. 

"But since tney will not, the very best 
way 
To make this world look bright 
Is never to mind wnat people say, 
But do what you think is right. ' ' 

— Walter Learned. 



RIGHT CONDUCT AND KIND WORDS 



51 



THE TONE OF VOICE. 

It is not so much what you say, 
As the maner in which you say it; 

It is not so much the language you use, 
As the tones in which you convey it. 

' ' Come here ! " I sharply said, 
And the baby cowered and wept; 

* ' Come here ! " I cooed, and he looked 
and smiled, 
And straight to my lap he crept. 

The words may be mild and fair, 

And the tones may pierce like a dart; 

The words may be soft as the summer 
air, 
And the tones may break the heart. 

For words but come from the mind, 
And grow by study and art; 

But the tones leap forth from the inner 
self 
And reveal the state of the heart. 

Whether you know it or not — 
Whether you mean or care — 

Gentleness, kindness, love and hate, 
Envy and anger are there. 

Then would you quarrels avoid 
And in peace and love rejoice, 

Keep anger not only out of your words, 
But keep it out of your voice. 

— Youth's Companion. 



EPIGEAMMATIC. 
He wins at last, who builds his trust 
In loving words and actions just. 

The winter blast is stern and cold, 
Yet summer has its harvest gold. 

Sorrow and gloom the soul may meet, 
Yet love wrings triumph from defeat. 

The clouds may darken o'er the sun, 
Yet rivers to the ocean run. 

Earth brings the bitterness of pain, 
Yet worth the crown of peace will gain. 

The wind may roar among the trees, 
Yet great ships sail the stormy seas. 



Full oft we feel the surge of tears, 
Yet joy has light for all the years. 

On every banner blazon bright, 
' ' For toil, and truth, and love we fight. ' 
—Thomas 8. Colier. 



AN ANGEL HERE. 

A ragged urchin played along the stret, 
And slipped and fell upon the icy way. 
A fair browed girl tripped by with nim- 
ble feet, 
But sudden stopped beside the boy, who 
lay 

Half crying with his pain. In sweetest 

tone 

And eyes brimful of tender human lova, 

She said, ' ' And did you hurt you much ! ' ' 

A groan 

Died on his lips. An angel from above 

Could not have grander seemed than she 
to him. 
He opened wide his great, brown, home- 
less eyes, 
Thus to be sure one of the seraphim 
Had not come down to earth in sweet 
disguise. 

She went her way, forgetting that she 
smiled, 
Glad to have said a word of hope and 
cheer. 
Not so the vision to the humble child — 
That voice and face would live through 
many a year. 

And then to boys who gathered round the 
lad, 
He said, with face aglow with sym- 
pathy 
And heart that 'neath his ragged garb 
was glad, 
"I'd fall again to have her speak to 
me! " 

Oh, precious human voice, with power 
untold ! 
Oh, precious human love to mortals 
given! 
A word or smile are richer gifts than 
gold— 
Better be angels here than wait for 
heaven. —Sarah T. Bolton. 



52 



EIGHT CONDUCT AND KIND WORDS 



HOW TO BE HAPPY. 

When you hear of good in people — tell it; 
When you hear a tale of evil — quel it. 
Let the goodness have the light, 
Put the evil out of sight, 
Make the world we live in bright, 
Like the heaven above. 

You must have a work to do — pursue it, 
If a failure, try again— renew it. 
Failure spurs us to success, 
Failures come, but come to bless, 
Fitting us for righteousness 

In the heaven above. 
—John Sterling, in New YorTc Academy. 



TIRED OF PLAY. 

Tired of play! tired of play! 
What hast thou done this live-long day? 
The birds are silent, and so is the bee; 
The sun is creeping up temple and tree. 

The doves have flown to the sheltering 

eaves, 
And the nests are dark with the drooping 

leaves, 
Twilight gathers and day is done, 
How hast thou spent it, restless one? 

Playing? But what hast thou done be- 
side, 
To tell thy mother at eventide? 
What promise of morn is left unbroken? 
What kind word to thy playmate spoken? 

Whom hast thou pitied and whom for- 
given? 
How with thy faults has duty striven? 
What hast thou learned by field or hill? 
By green- wood path, and singing rill? 

Well for thee if thou couldst tell 
A tale like this of a day spent well, 
If thy kind hand has aided distress, 
And thou pity hast felt for wretchedness ; 

If thou hast forgiven a brother 's offense, 
And grieved for thine own with peni- 
tence ; 
If every creature has won thy love, 
From the creeping worm to the brooding 

dove, 
Then with joy and peace on the bed of 

rest 
Thou wilt sleep as on they mother's 
breast. 



NOBLE DEEDS. 

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, 

Our hearts, in glad surprise, 

To higher levels rise. 

The tidal wave of deeper souls 
Into our inmost being rolls, 

And lifts us unawares 

Out of all deeper cares. 

Honor to those whose words and deeds 
Thus help us in our daily needs, 
And by their overflow 
Raises us from what is low. 

—Longfellow. 



LIFE. 

Life is a book 
Of clean white pages, given us at birth, 
Wherein to write the record of our 

lives, 
The record that beyond us still sur- 
vives, 
The story of our pilgrimage on earth. 

Our ev'ry deed 
Each day we take the pencil and indite 
On a new page— our wishes, hopes and 

fears, 
For good or ill, and so, on thro' the 
years, 
The record grows, of ev'ry day and 
night. 

We may not look 
At what we once have therein written, 
but 
Thro' memory; nor may we e'er erase 
A single thing that therein has its 
place. 
When all is finished, then out book i3 
shut. 

O soul, take heed 
That in thy life's book naught shall e'er 
offend ! 
Have then a care about thine ev'ry 

act 
That thy books beauty may appear 
intact, 
Nor blot, nor blemish, mar it, to the end! 
— William Hamilton Cline. 



EIGHT CONDUCT AND KIND ^>YORDS 



53 



DO NOT FOEGET. 

Do not forget as you go on your way 
Through this busy world, with its toil 
and strife, 
Often a kindly word to say 

To those you meet in the paths of life. 
Do not forget that a smile of cheer 
May comfort a heart that is sad and 
drear, 
And brighten a day that is hard and 
long. 
The burning words that forever live 
It may not be yours to speak or give — 
But there's heart and hope in a bit 
of song. 

Do not forget that wherever you go 
Kindly deeds may be found to do, 
No one so poor but can bestow 

The help that will courage and faith 
renew ! 
No one so weak who can not give 
The hand that may help a soul to live 

And rise again from the trodden clay! 
Splendid achievements may never be 

yours, 
But the deed that for love 's sake is done 
endures, 
And will blossom forever from day to 
day. 

— S. J. Montgomery. 



WHAT IS GOOD. 

"What is the real good," 
I ask in musing mood. 

"Order," said the law court; 
"Knowledge,' said the school; 
"Truth said the wise man; 
"Pleasure,' said the fool; 
"Love," said the maiden; 
"Beauty," said the page; 
"Freedom," said the dreamer; 
"Home," said the sage; 
"Fame," said the soldier; 
"Equity," said the seer; 

Spake my heart full sadly; 
"The answer is not here." 

Then within my bosom 
Softly this I heard: 
"Each heart holds the secret; 
" 'Kindness' is the word." 

— Jolm Boyle 'Beilly. 



HERE AND THERE. 

There, little girl, don't cry; 

They've broken your doll, I know, 

And your tea set blue 

And your toy house, too, 

Are things of the long ago; 

But childish troubles will soon pass by; 

There, little girl, don't cry. 

There, little girl, don't cry; 

They've broken your slate, I know, 

And the glad, wild ways 

Of your schoolgirl days 

Are things of the long ago; 

But life and love will soon come by; 

There, little girl, don't cry. 

There' little girl, don't cry; 
They've broken your heart, I know, 
And the rainbow gleams 
Of your youthful dreams 
Are things of the long ago; 
But heaven holds all for which you sigh; 
There, little girl, don't cry. 
—James WMtcomb Biley, in Commercial 
Advertiser. 



THE RIGHT WILL RIGHT ITSELF. 

When overcome with anxious fears, 

And moved with passion strong, 
Because the right seems losing ground 

And everything goes wrong, 
How oft does admonition say: 

"Put trouble on the shelf; 
Truth will outlive the bars' day. 

And Right will right itself ! ' ' 

By all the triumphs of the past, 

By all the victories won, 
The good achieved, the progress made 

Each day, from sun to sun; 
In spite of artful ways employed 

By perfidy or pelf, 
Of one thing we can rest assured, 

That Right will right itself! 

Unshaken in our faith and zeal, 

'Tis ours to do and dare, 
To find the place we best can fill, 

And serve our Maker there; 
For he is only brave who thus 

Puts trouble on the shelf, 
And trusts in God, for by His aid 

The Right will right itself. 
—Josephine Pollard, in New YorTc 

Ledegr. 



54 RIGHT CONDUCT AND KIND WORDS 



SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 

The woman was old and ragged and gray, 
And bent with the chill of the winter's 
day, 

The street was wet with a recent snow, 
And the woman's feet were aged and 
slow. 

She stood at the crossing and waited long, 
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng 

Of human beings who passed her by, 
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. 

Down the street with laughter and shout, 
Glad in the freedom of ' ' school let out, ' ' 

Came the boys, like a flock of sheep, 
Hailing the snow piled white and deep. 

Past the woman so old and gray 
Hastened the children on their way, 

Nor offered a helping hand to her, 
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir 

Lest the carriage wheels or horses ' feet 
Should crowd her down in the slippery 
street. 

At last came one of the merry troop— 
The gayest laddie of all the group: 

He paused beside her, and whispered low, 
' ' I '11 help you across, if you wish to go. ' ' 

Her aged hand on his strong arm 

She placed, and so, without hurt or harm, 

He guided the trembling feet along, 
Proud that his own were firm and strong. 

Then back again to his friends he went, 
His young heart happy and well content. 

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you 

know, 
For all she's aged and poor and slow, 

And I hope some fellow will lend a hand 
To help my mother, you understand, 

If she 's poor and old and gray, 

When her own dear boy is far away." 



And "somebody's mother" bowed low 

her head 
In her home that night, nad the prayer 

she said 

Was, ' ' God, be kind to the noble boy, 
Who is somebody's son and pride and 
joy!" 

—Harper's Weekly. 



HAPPINESS. 

Not reverie for that we can not gain 
Nor wish for that we know we can not 

reach, 
But just to strive by tenderness of 
speech, 

And gift of gentleness to soften pain; 

To lift the fallen that they may regain 
Another opportunity. To teach 
The music of sweet sympathy to each — 

And happiness will not be sought in vain. 

To lend a hand of help, with pleasant 
smile 

Of hopefulness to meet the coming 
days — 

Will, like the sun dispelling gloomy 
haze, 
Transfigure sorrow, and the mind be- 
guile; 

For after all is said, if understood, 

True happiness is found in doing good. 



MY NEIGHBOE'S BOY. 

He seems to be several boys in one, 

So much is he constantly everywhere! 
And the mischevious things that boy has 
done 
No mind can remember nor mouth de- 
clare. 
He fills the whole of his share of space 
With his strong straight form and his 
merry face. 

He is very cowardly, very brave, 
He is kind and cruel, good and bad, 

A brute and a hero! Who will save 
The best from the worst of my neigh- 
bor's lad? 

The mean and the noble strive to-day— 

Which of the powers will have its way? 



BIGHT CONDUCT AND KIND WORDS 



55 



The world is needing his strength and 

skill. 
He will make hearts happy or make 

them ache. 
What power in him for good or ill? 
Which of life's paths will his swift 

feet take? 
Will he rise and draw others up with him, 
Or the light that is in him burn low 

and dim? 

But what is my neighbor's boy to me 
More than a nuisance? My neighbor's 
boy 
Though I have some fear for what he may 
be, 
Is a source of solicitude, hope and joy, 
And a constant pleasure. Because I pray 
That the best that is in him will rule 
some day. 

He passes me by with a smile and a nod, 
He knows I have hope of him — guesses, 
too, 



That I whisper his name when I ask of 
God 
That men may be righteous, His will 
to do. 
And I think that many would have more 

joy 
If they loved and prayed for a neighbor 's 
boy. 

— London Christain World. 



CHEEEING WOEDS. 

If any little word of mine 

Can make some life the brighter, 
If any little song of mine 

May make some heart the lighter, 
God help me speak that little word, 

And take the song I'm singing 
And bear it to some lonely dale 

To set the echoes ringing: 
Echoes that thrill in joyous tone, 

To some one comfort bringing. 

—New YorTc Press. 



Good Advice 



WATCH YOUR WOEDS. 

Keep watch on your words, my darling, 

For words are wonderful things: 
They are sweet, like the bee's sweet 
honey — 

Like the bees they have terrible stings ; 
They can bless like the warm, glad sun- 
shine, 

And brighten the lonely life; 
They can cut, in the strife of anger, 

Like an open, two-edged knife. 

Let them pass through your lips unchal- 
lenged, 

If their errand is true and kind, 
If they come to support the weary, 

To comfort and help the blind; 
If a bitter, revengeful spirit 

Prompt the words, let them be unsaid; 
They may flash through the brain like 
lightning, 

Or fall on the heart like lead. 

Keep them back, if they're cold and 
cruel, 

Under bar and lock and seal; 
The wounds they make my darling, 

Are always slow to heal. 
May peace guard your lips, and ever, 

From the time of your early youth; 
May the words you daily utter 

Be the words of beautiful truth. 



ADVICE TO A BOY. 

My boy, you're soon to be a man, 

Get ready for a man's work now, 
And learn to do the best you can 

When sweat is brought to arm and 
brow; 
Don't be afraid, my boy, to work, 

You 've got to, if you mean to win ! 
He is a coward who will shirk: 

Koll up your sleeves and then "go in. ' ' 



Don't wait for chances; look about! 

There's always something you can do; 
He who will manfully strike out 

Finds labor— plenty of it, too. 
But he who folds his hands nad waits 

For "something to turn up" will find 
The toiler passes Fortune's gates, 

While he, alas, is left behind! 

Be honest, as the day is long; 

Don't grind the poor man for his cent, 
In helping otters you grow strong, 

And kind deeds done are only lent; 
And this remember, if you're wise, 

To your own business be eonfined, 
He is a fool, and fails, who tries, 

His fellow-men's affairs to mind. 

Don't be discouraged and get blue 

If things don 't go to suit you qnite ; 
Work on! Perhaps it rests with you 

To set the wrong that worries right. 
Don 't lean on others ! Be a man ! 

Stand on a footing of your own! 
Be independent, if you can, 

And cultivate a sound backbone! 



SEVEN POINTS FOR BOYS. 

Be honest, my boy, be honest, I say; 
Be honest at work, be honest at play; 
The same in the dark as when in the light, 
Your deeds need not then be kept out of 
sight. 

The next thing you need is knowledge, my 

boy; 
These virtues, indeed, your time should 

employ ; 
Let knowledge display integrity, too, 
And you'll seldom say, "I've nothing to 

do. ' ' 

But work calls for action, muscle and 
will; 

Boys must "get up and get," their sta- 
tion to fill; 



58 



GOOD ADVICE 



And. boys should be active as ever they 

can— 
A dull, stupid boy grows to a dull, stupid 

man. 

But simple activity will not suffice; 
Some shrewd, active boys are shirks in 

disguise; 
They mark all the moves the industrious 

do, 
But don't care a fig to push business 

through. 

The next thing in order— avoiding dis- 
play- 
Is boys should be careful to hear and 

obey. 
Never even presuming to make a reply, 
Nor, muttering, say: "I'll go by and 

by," 

But promptly obey with a hearty good 

will, 
Attempting, at least, the whole order to 

fill. 

Again: Be not fitful, but stick to your 

work; 
Never let it be said that you're a shirk; 
But when any task is fairly begun, 
Keep ' ' pegging away ' ' until it is done. 

Be honest, be wise and industrious too; 
Be active, obedient, obliging and true; 
Be faithful in all things, be elean as you 

can, 
Polite in your manners, and you'll be a 

man. 



PADDLE TOUR OWN CANOE. 

Voyager upon life's sea, 

To yourself be true; 
And where 'er your lot may be, 

Paddle your own canoe. 
Never, though the winds may rave, 

Falter nor look back, 
But upon the darkest wave 

Leave a shining track. 

Nobly dare the wildest storm, 

Stem the hardest gale, 
Brave of heart and strong of arm, 

You will never fail. 
When the world is cold and dark 

Keep an end in view, 
And toward the beacon mark 

Paddle your own canoe. 



Every wave that bears you on 

To the silent shore 

From its sunny source has gone 

To return no more. 
Then let not an hour's delay 
Cheat you of your due; 
But while it is called to-day 

Paddle your own canoe. 

If your birth denied you wealth, 

Lofty state and power, 
Honest fame and hardy health 

Are a better dower; 
But if these will not suffice, 

Golden gain pursue, 
And to win the glittering prize 

Paddle your own canoe. 

Would you wrest the wreath of fame; 

From the hand of Fate, 
Would you write a deathless name 

With the good and great, 
Would you bless your fellow-men? 

Heart and soul imbue 
With the holy task, and then 

Paddle your own canoe. 

Would you crush the tyrant Wrong,, 

In the world's fierce fight? 
With a spirit brave and strong 

Battle for the Eight; 
And to break the chains that bind 

The many to the few — 
To enfranchise slavish mind, 

Paddle your own canoe. 

Nothing great is lightly won, 

Nothing won is lost — 
Every good deed nobly done 

Will repay the cost; 
Leave to Heaven, in humble trust 

All that you will do; 
But if you succeed, you must 

Paddle your own canoe. 

—Mrs. Sarah T. Bolton.. 



IN THE BATTLE. 

If a trouble binds you, break it ; 
Life is often what we make it, 
Good or ill — and so we take it; 
Let not disappointment fret you, 
If a seeming ill beset you, 
Cast it off, and hopeful get you 
On your way — 
As you make it, so you take it, 
In the battle every day* 



GOOD ADVICE 



59 



If your genius slumber, wake it ; 


Don't let them feel that you've no more 


For our life is what we make it ; 


need 


As -we shape it, 'so we take it; 


Of their love and counsel wise, 


If we hunt for care or sorrow, 


For the heart grows strangely sensitive 


We shall only always borrow 


When age has dimmed the eyes. 


Trouble from a better morrow 


It might be well to let them believe 


Every day— 


You never forget them quite — 


As we make it, so we take it — 


That you deem it a pleasure when far 


So the lif e will run away. 


away 




Long letters home to write. 


If the heart is thirsty, slake it; 




If a blessing offers, take it; 


Don't think that the young and giddy 


For our life is what we make it; 


friends 


Joy abounds in happy faces; 


Who make your pastime gay 


Pleasure lives in rosy places; 


Have half the anxious thoughts for you 


Let us court the goodly graces 


That the old folks have to-day. 


By the way; 


The duty of writing do not put off, 


And we '11 take it as we make it 


Let sleep or pleasure wait, 


In the battle every day. 


Lest the letter for which they look and 




long 


Dig the garden, smooth it, rake it ; 


Be a day or an hour too late, 


For the math is what you make it; 




As you work it, so you take it ; 


For the sad old folks at home, 


Sit not idly hoping, dreaming — 


With locks fast turning white, 


Wrapt in fancy's futile teeming; 


Are longing to hear of the absent one — 


Victory does not come by scheming — 


Write them a letter to-night. 


Strike and stay! 


— Cincinnati Saturday Night. 


As you make it, so you take it, 




If you faint not by the way. 




— M. V. Moore, in Detroit Free Press. 






BE POLITE. 




Hearts, like doors, will ope with ease 


WRITE THEM A LETTER TO-NIGHT. 


To two very little keys; 
But don't forget the two are these: 


Don't go to the theater, lecture or ball, 


"I thank you, sir," and "If you 


But stay in your room to-night; 


please. ' ' 


Deny yourself to the friends that call, 


Be polite, boys; don't forget it 


And a good long letter write— 


In your wandering day by day, 


Write to the sad old folks at home, 


When you work and when you study, 


Who sit when the day is done 


In your home and at your play. 


With folded hands and downcast eyes 




And think of the absent one. 


Be polite, boys, to each other; 




Do not quickly take offense; 


Don't selfishly scribble: "Excuse my 


Curb your temper; you'll be thankful 


haste ; 


For this habit seasons hence. 


I've scarcely the time to write." 


Be respectful to the aged, 


Lest their brooding thoughts go wander- 


And this one thing bear in mind: 


ing back 


Never taunt the wretched outcast, 


To many a bygone night, 


Be he helpless, lame or blind. 


When they lost their needed sleep and 




rest, 


Be polite, boys, to your parents; 


And every breath was a prayer 


Never let them fail to hear 


That God would leave their delicate babe 


From their sons the best language 


To their tender love and care. 


In the home you should love dear. 



60 



GOOD ADVICE 



To your brothers and your sisters 
Speak in accents kind and true. 

Be polite ; 'twill serve you better 
Than a princely gift can do. 

— New York Ledger. 



EEMEMBEB, BOYS MAKE MEN. 

When you see a ragged urchin 

Standing wistful in the street, 
With torn hat and kneeless trousers, 

Dirty face and bare red feet, 
Pass not by the child unheeding; 

Smile upon him. Mark me, when 
He's grown he'll not forget it; 

For remember, boys make men. 

When the buoyant youthful spirits 

Overflow in boyish freak, 
Chide your child in gentle accents; 

Do not in your anger speak. 
You must sow in youthful bosoms 

Seeds of tender mercies; then 
Plants will grow and bear good fruitage, 

When the erring boys are men. 

Have you never seen a grandsire, 

With his eyes aglow with joy, 
Bring to mind some act of kindness — 

Something said to him a boy? 
Or relate some slight or coldness, 

With a brow all clouded, when 
He said they were too thoughtless 

To remember boys make men? 

Let us try to add some pleasures 

To the life of every boy ; 
For each child needs tender interest 

In its sorrows and its joy; 
Call your boys home by its brightness; 

They'll avoid a gloomy den, 
And seek for comfort elsewhere — 

And remember, boys make men. 



THE BOY WHO MINDS HIS MOTHEE 

Boys, just listen for a moment 

To a word I have to say : 
Manhood's gates are just before you, 

Drawing nearer every day; 
Bear in mind while you are passing 

O'er the intervening span 
That the boy who minds his mother 

Seldom makes a wicked man. 



There are many slips and failures 

In this world we're living in; 
Those who start with prospects fairest 

Oft are overcome by sin; 
But I'm certain that you'll notice, 

If the facts you'll closely scan, 
That the boy who minds his mother 

Seldom makes a wicked roan. 

Then be guided by her counsel; 

It will never lead astray. 
Best assured she has your welfare 

In her thoughts by night and day. 
Don't forget that she has loved you 

Since the day your life began. 
Ah, the boy who minds his mother 

Seldom makes a wicked man. 

—Yankee Blade. 



"IF I WEEE YOU." 

If I were you and had a friend 
Who called a pleasant hour to spend, 
I 'd be polite enough to say, 
' ' Ned, you may choose what games we '11 
play." 

That's what I'd do 

If I were you. 

If I were you and went to school, 
I'd never break the smallest rule, 
And it should be my teacher's joy 
To say she had no better boy, 

And 'twould be true 

If I were you. 

If I were you, I'd always tell 
The truth, no matter what befell, 
For two things only I despise— 
A coward heart and telling lies — 

And you would, too, 

If I were you. 

If I were you, I 'd try my best 
To do the things I here suggest, 
Though since I am no one but me, 
I cannot very well, you see, 

Know what I'd do 

If I were you. 

— New York Independent. 



WHATNOT TO LOSE. 

Don't lose courage; spirit brave 
Carry with you to the grave. 



GOOD ADVICE 



61 



Don't lose time in vain distress; 
Work, not worry, brings success. 

Don 't lose hope ; who lets her stray 
Goes forlornly all the way. 

Don't lose patience, come what will; 
Patience ofttimes outruns skill. 

Don't lose gladness; every hour 
Blooms for you some happy flower. 

Though be foiled your dearest plan, 
Don't lose faith in God and man. 



KEEP IN THE GOLDEN WAT. 

There are paths that lead to gladness, 
there are paths that lead to gloom, 
Keep in the golden way, 
And beautify the journey in the land be- 
yond' the tomb ; 
Keep in the golden way. 
A loving word upon the lip, a warmth 

within the eye, 
Can send a shaft of kindly light athwart 

the darkest sky; 
A smile may lift the heart that would be 
stifled with a sigh. 
Keep in the golden way. 

He serves life's purpose best who glads 
the souls of weary men; 
Keep in the golden way; 
Make bright the Now and leave with God 
the great eternal Then; 
Keep in the golden way. 
The world is full of sorrow; passion sows 

the seeds of pain, 
But love can rob a heart of sin and hide 

away the stain; 
Not ours to sift the worldly chaff from 
his immortal grain; 
Keep in the golden way. 

—Nixon Waterman. 



THY DUTY. 

Let all the good thou doest to man 

A gift be, not a debt; 
And he will more remember thee 

The more thou doest forget. 

Do it as one who knows it not, 

But rather like a vine 
That year by year brings forth its grapes 

And cares not for the wine. 

A horse when he has run his race, 
A dog when tracked the game, 

A bee when it has honey made — 
Do not their deeds proclaim. 

Be silent, then, and like the vine, 

Bring forth what is in thee; 
It is thy duty to be good, 

And man's to honor thee. 
—Morals of Marcus Aurelius, by B. E. 

Stoddard. 



THKEE LESSONS. 

There are three lessons I would write, 
Three words as with a golden pen, 

In tracings of eternal light 
Upon the hearts of men. 

Have hope ! Though clouds environ round 
And Gladness hides her face in scorn, 

Put thou the shadow from thy brow — 
No night but has its morn. 

Have faith! Where'er thy bark is 
driven — 
The calm's disport, the tempest's 
mirth- 
Know this: God rules the hosts of 
heaven, 
The inhabitants of earth. 

Have love I Not love alone for one, 
But man as man thy brother call, 

And scatter, like the circling sun, 
Thy charities on all. 

Thus grave these words upon thy soul — 
Hope, faith and love— and thou shalt 
find 
Strength when life 's surges maddest roll, 
Light when thou else wert blind. 

— Schiller. 



Effort and Perseverance 



OUR HEROES. 

Here 's to the boy who has courage 

To do what he knows to be right; 
When he falls in the way of temptation, 

He has a hard battle to fight. 
"Who strives against self and his com- 
rades 

"Will find a most powerful foe; 
All honor to him if he conquers — 

A cheer for the boy who says "No." 

There 's many a battle fought daily 

The world knows nothing about; 
There's many a brave little soldier 

Whose strength puts a legion to rout. 
And he who fights sin single-handed 

Is more of a hero, I say, 
Than he who leads soldiers to battle 

And conquers by arms in the fray. 

Be steadfast, my boy, when you're 
tempted 
To do what you know to be right; 
Stand firm by the colors of manhood 
And you will o'ercome in the fight. 
"The Eight" be your battle-cry ever 

In waging the warfare of life, 
And God, who knows who are the heroes, 
Will give you the strength for the 
strife. 

—Phoebe Cary. 



THE RUDDER. 

Of what are you thinking, my little lad, 
with the honest eyes of blue, 
As you watch the vessels that slowly 
glide o'er the level ocean floor? 
Beautiful, graceful, silent as dreams, they 
pass away from our view, 
And down the slope of the world they 
go, to seek some far-off shore. 

They seem to be scattered abroad by 
chance, to move at the breeze's 
will. 



Aimlessly wandering hither and yon, 
and melting in distance gray; 
But each one moves to a purpose firm, and 
the winds their sails that fill 

Like faithful servants speed them all 
on their appointed way. 

For each one has a rudder, my dear little 

lad, with a stanch man at the 

wheel, 
And the rudder is never left to itself, 

but the will of the man is there ; 
There is never a moment, day or night, 

that the vessel does not feel 
The force of the purpose that shapes 

her course and the helmman's 

watchful care. 

Some day you will launch your ship, my 
boy, on life's wide, treacherous 
seas— - 
Be sure your rudder is wrought of 
strength to stand the stress of the 
gale; 
And your hand on the wheel, don't let it 
flinch, whatever the tumult be, 
For the will of the man, with the help 
of God, shall conquer and prevail. 
—Celia Thaxter. 



ALWAYS A RIVER TO CROSS. 

There's always a river to cross, 

Always an effort to make, 
If there's anything good to win, 

Any rich prize to take. 
Yonder 's the fruit we crave, 

Yonder 's the charming scene; 
But deep and wide, with a troubled tide, 

Is the river that lies between. 

For the treasures of precious worth 
We must patiently dig and dive; 

For the places we long to fill 

We must push and struggle and strive. 



64 EFFORT AND 


PERSEVERANCE 


And always and everywhere 


If your eyes you do not shut, 


We'll find in our outward course 


Just as surely 


Thorns for the feet and trials to meet, 


And securely 


And a difficult river to cross. 


As a kernel in a nut! 


The rougher the way we take, 


If you think a word will please, 


The stouter the heart and nerve, 


Say it if it is but true; 


The stones in our path we break, 


Words may give delight with ease 


Nor e'er from our impulse swerve, 


When no act is asked from you. 


For the glory we hope to win 


Words may often 


Our labors we count no loss ; 


Soothe and soften, 


'Tis folly to pause and murmur because 


Gild a joy or heal a pain; 


Of the river we have to cross. 


They are treasures, 




Yielding pleasures 


So, ready to do and to dare, 


It is wicked to retain! 


Should we in our places stand, 




Fulfilling the Master's will, 


Whatsoe'er you find to do, 


Fulfilling the soul's demand; 


Do it, then, with all your might ; 


For though as the mountain high 


Let your prayers be strong and true. 


The billows may rear and toss, 


Prayer, my lads, will keep you right. 


They'll not overwhelm if the Lord's at 


Pray in all things, 


the helm 


Great and small things, 


When the difficult river we cross. 


Like a Christian gentleman; 


— Josephine Pollard, in Christian at 


And for ever, 


Work. 


Now or never, 




Be as thorough as you can. 

—Children's Museum. 




THE VICAE'S SERMON. 




Whatsoe'er you find to do, 




Do it, boys, with all your might; 


PATHS. 


Ever be a little true, 




Or a little in the right. 


The path that leads to a Loaf of Bread 


Trifles even 


Winds through the Swamps of Toil, 


Lead to heaven, 


And the path that leads to a Suit of" 


Trifles make the life of man; 


Clothes 


So in all things 


Goes through a flowerless soil, 


Great and small things, 


And the paths that lead to the Loaf of 


Be as thorough as you can. 


Bread 




And the Suit of Clothes are hard to tread. 


Let no speck their surface dim- 


And the path that leads to a House of' 
Your Own 


Spotless truth and honor bright! 


I'd not give a fig for him 


Climbs over the bowldered hills, 


Who says any lie is white! 
He who falters, 


And the path that leads to a Bank Ac- 
count 
Is swept by the blast that kills ; 

But the men who start, in the paths any- 
day 

In the Lazy Hills may go astray. 


Twists or alters 
Little atoms when we speak, 
May deceive me, 


But believe me 
To himself he is a sneak! 




In the Lazy Hills are trees of shade 


Help the weak if you are strong ; 


By the dreamy Brooks of Sleep, 


Love the old if you are young; 


And the rolicking Eiver of Pleasure- 


Own a fault if you are wrong ; 


laughs 


If you're angry hold your tongue. 


And gambols down the steep; 


In each duty 


But when the blasts of winter come, : 


Lies a beauty, 


The brooks and the river are frozen dumb.. 



EFFORT AND PERSEVERANCE 



65 



Then •woe to those in the Lazy Hills 
When the blasts of winter moan, 
Who strayed from the path to a Bank 
Account 
And the path to a House of Their Own ; 
These paths are hard in the summer heat, 
But in winter they lead to a snug retreat. 
— S. TV. Foss, in Yankee Blade. 



LIFE. 



Chisel in hand/ stood a sculptor-boy, 

With his marble block before him, 
And his face lit up with a smile of joy 

As an angel-dream passed o'er him; 
He carved the dream on that shapeless 
stone 

With many a sharp incision; 
With heaven's own light that sculpture 
shone; 

He had caught that angel vision. 

Sculptors of life are we, as we stand 

With our souls unearved before us, 
Waiting the hour when, at God's com- 
mand, 

Our life dream shall pass o'er us. 
If we carve it, then, on the yielding stone, 

With many a sharp incision, 
Its heavenly beauty shall be our own, 

Our lives that angel-vision. 

—Bishop Doane. 



YOUTH AND LIFE. 

What would the world be if by chance 
Youth held it futile to advance — 
Futile to dream of loftier days 
Than those it sees, of sweeter ways 
Beyond its common paths, of flights 
Beyond the measure of its nights? 
Ah, then the heart of youth would beat 
With little of its passionate heat, 
And hope would move in weary wise, 
With listless soul and unlit eyes. 

But youth is mighty with desire, 

Untiring in its faith and fire, 

And enters where the seasoned mind 

Falters and darkly looks behind; 

Where tottering age bends low and weeps, 

Finding no profit where it reaps. 

If youth were not as youth must be — 

Strong with the strength of earth and 



Strong with the glory of the stars, 
Defiant of any will that bars 
The long road winding to its goal- 
Then life would be a cruel whole. 

But look— there's promise in the bow 

That arches with prismatic glow 

The heaven of youth, that heaven which 

lies 
Wide as the world-begetting skies. 
There's promise in the spring-time flood 
Of youth's tumultuous, thrilling blood, 
And there is burning, brightening life 
Amid the clashing steel of strife. 

Ah, days of youth, they speed too fast- 
But they are matchless while they last. 
—George Edgar Montgomery, in Har- 
per's Weekly. 



WHEEE THERE 'S A WILL THEEE 'S 
A WAY. 

1 * Aut viam inveniam, aut f aciam. ' ' 

It was a noble Boman, 

In Rome 's imperial day, 
Who heard a coward croaker, 

Before the castle, say: 
"They're safe in such a fortress; 

There is no way to shake it ! " 
"On — on!" exclaimed the hero; 

"I'll find a way, or make it ! " 

Is Fame your aspiration? 

Her path is steep and high; 
In vain he seeks her temple, 

Content to gaze and sigh. 
The shining throne is waiting, 

But he alone can take it 
Who says, with Roman firmness, 

" I '11 find a way, or make it ! ' ' 

Is Learning your ambition? 

There is no royal road; 
Alike the peer and peasant 

Must climb to her abode. 
Who feels the thirst of knowledge, 

In Helicon may slake it, 
If he has still the Roman will 

' ' To find a way, or make it ! ' ' 

Are Riches worth the getting? 

They must be bravely sought; 
With wishing and with fretting 

The boon can not be bought. 



66 



EFFORT AND PERSEVERANCE 



To all the prize is open, 

But only he can take it 
Who says, with Eoman courage, 

"I'll find a way, or make it! " 

In Love 's impassioned warfare 

The tale has ever been 
That victory crowns the valiant— 

The brave are they who win. 
Though strong is Beauty's castle, 

A lover still may take it 
Who says with Eoman daring, 

" I '11 find a way, or make it ! " 

—John G. Saxe. 



BOYS WANTED. 

Boys of spirit, boys of will, 

Boys of muscle, brain and power. 

Fit to cope with anything— 
These are wanted every hour. 

Not the weak and whining drones, 
That all trouble magnify; 

Not the watchword of ' ' I can 't ! ' ' 
But the noble one, " I '11 try. ' ' 

Do whate'er you have to do 
With a true and earnest zeal; 

Bend your sinews to the task, 
Put your shoulder to the wheel. 

Though your duty may be hard, 

Look not on it as an ill; 
If it be an honest task, 

Do it with an honest will. 

At the anvil, on the farm, 

Wheresoever you may be, 
Prom your future efforts, boys, 

Come a Nation's destiny. 

—Sunday Young Folks. 



TO GET THE GOOD OF LIVING. 

To get the good of living 

You can't go mincing round 
Pirst at this and then at that, 
In nothing earnest found. 
Love well, hate well, when you've fixed 

your mind; 
Work well, play well, just as you're in- 
clined. 



But do a thing as if it was the only thing 

on earth, 
For a life that's worth the living should 

be lived for all it's worth! 

To get the good of living 

You've got to live outright; 
Half way this and half way that 
Make your life a blight. 
Stand well, fight well, for the creed you 

hold; 
Win well, lose well, as your fate is told, 
For this is manful doctrine, sound from 

creation's birth, 
That a life that's worth the living should 

be lived for all it 's worth ! 
—Ripley D. Saunders, in St. Louis Re- 
public. 



A QUEER BOY. 

He doesn't like study, "it weakens his 

eyes, ' ' 
But the ' ' right sort ' ' of book will insure 

a surprise. 
Let it be about Indians, pirates or bears, 
And he's lost for the day to all mundane 

affairs ; 
By sunlight or gaslight his vision is clear. 
Now, isn't that queer? 

At thought of an errand he 's " tired as a 

hound, ' ' 
Very weary of life, and of "tramping 

around. ' ' 
But if there 's a band or a circus in sight, 
He will follow it gladly from morning till 

night. 
The showman will capture him some day, 

I fear, 

For he is so queer. 

If there's work in the garden, his head 

"aches to split," 
And his back is so lame that he "can't 

dig a bit, ' ' 
But mention base ball and he's cured 

very soon, 
And he'll dig for a woodchuck the whole 

afternoon. 
Do you think he "plays possum?" He 

seems quite sincere; 
But — isn't he queer? 

— W. H. S., in St. Nicholas. 



EFFORT AND PERSEVERANCE 



67 



TO THE BOYS. 

You '11 never discover new lands, my boys, 
If you always follow the beaten track. 
You'll never stand firm on the mountain 
height 
If you're always halting and gazing 
back. 
Strike out for yourself, but be sure the 
path 
Is not girt with the noxious weeds of 
sin, 
That no sharp-edged rocks of some deadly 
vice 
Or pitfalls of folly be found therein. 

Choose the path of honor and virtue, boys, 
And let no one tempt you to swerve 



Its guide-boards — temperance, purity, 
truth — 
Who follows their guidance few dan- 
gers betide. 
There may not be wealth and fame at 
the end, 
But wealth and fame do not constitute 
bliss. 
A pure, perfect manhood and noble life— 
There's nothing worth striving for, 
boys, but this. 



ROOM AT THE TOP. 

Never you mind the crowd, lad, 

Or fancy your life won't tell; 
The work is the work for a' that 

To him that doeth it well. 
Fancy the world a hill, lad; 

Look where the millions stop; 
You'll find the crowd at the base, lad; 

There's always room at the top. 

Courage and faith and patience, 

There's space in the old world yet; 
The better the chance you stand, lad, 

The further along you get. 
Keep your eye on the goal, lad; 

Never despair or drop; 
Be sure that your path lies upward; 

There's always room at the top. 



THE FARMEE BOY. 
A welcome to the farmer boy, 

Whose heart is in his toil, 
Who wins his muscle and his pence 

From Nature's teeming soil, 



Whose heart goes out like happy birds 

In gladsome songs of joy; 
Of such our Nation's power and pride, 

The honest farmer boy. 

Hurrah! hurrah! for the farmer boy! 

Of motives pure and great; 
Hurrah for the stalwart arm, 

To guide the ship of state. 

The dappered youth who fears the frost 

That changes green to sere, 
Can never claim the mind or might 

Columbia's ship to steer. 
The gilded sins of camp and court 

Such hot-house plants destroy, 
But health, and truth, and industry 

Protect the farmer boy. 

—Western Sural. 



I WILL BE WORTHY OF IT. 

I may not reach the heights I seek; 

My untried strength may fail me ; 
Or, half way up the mountain peak, 

Fierce tempests may assail me. 
But though that place I never gain, 
Herein lies comfort for my pain — 
I will be worthy of it. 

I may not triumph in success, 

Despite my earnest labor; 
I may not grasp results that bless 

The efforts of my neighbor. 
But though my goal I never see, 
This thought shall always dwell with 
me — 

I will be worthy of it. 

The golden glory of love's light 

May never fall on my way; 
My path may always lead through night, 

Like some deserted by-way. 
But though life's dearest joy I miss, 
There lies a nameless joy in this — 
I will be worthy of it. 

—Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 



THE PLODDER'S PETITION. 

Lord, let me not be too content 
With life in trifling service spent- 
Make me aspire! 
When days with petty cares are filled, 
Let me with fleeting thoughts be thrilled 
Of something higher! 



68 



EFFORT AND PERSEVERANCE 



Help me to long for mental grace 
To struggle with the commonplace 

I daily find. 
May little deeds not bring to fruit 
A crop of little thoughts to suit 

A shriveled mind. 

I do not ask for place among 

Great thinkers who have taught and sung, 

And scorned to bend 
Under the trifles of the hour — 
I only would not lose the power 

To comprehend. 
—Helen Gilbert, in the Independent. 



AN AIM. 

Give me a man who says, 

"I will do something well, 
And make the fleeting days 

A story of labor tell." 
Though the aim he has be small, 

It is better than none at all; 
With something to do the whole year 
through, 

He will not stumble at all. 

Better to strive and climb 

And never reach the goal 
Than to glide along with time — 

An aimless, worthless soul. 
Aye, better to climb and fall, 

And sow, though the yield be small, 
Than to throw away, day after day, 

And never strive at all. 



DON'T TAKE IT TO HEART. 

There's many a trouble 

Would break like a bubble, 
And into the waters of Lethe depart, 

Did we not rehearse it, 

And tenderly nurse it, 
And give it permanent place in the heart. 

There's many a sorrow 

Would vanish tomorrow 
Were we but willing to furnish the 
wings; 

So sadly intruding, 

And quietly brooding, 
It hatches out all sorts of horrible things. 



How welcome the seeming 
Of looks that are beaming, 
Whether one's wealthy or whether one's 
poor; 
Eyes bright as a berry, 
Cheeks red as a cherry, 
The groan, the curse and the heartache 
can cure. 

Eesolved to be merry, 
All worry to ferry 
Across the famed waters that bid us for- 
get, 
And no longer fearful, 
But happy and cheerful, 
We feel life has much that's worth liv- 
ing for yet. 

—Tinsley's Magazine. 



PEESEVEEENCE. 

The zeal that springs up suddenly 
Soon runs its brief career, 

While patient labor brings reward 
If we but persevere. 

'Twere vain to seek for precious ore 
By lightning's blinding glare, 

But miners using tiny lamps 
Find many treasures rare. 



WHO BIDES HIS TIME. 

Who bides his time and day by day 

Faces defeat full patiently, 
And lifts a mirthful roundelay, 

However poor his fortunes be — 
He will not fail in any qualm 

Of poverty. The paltry dime, 
It will grow golden in his palm 
Who bides his time. 

Who bides his time — he tastes the sweet 
Of honey in the saltest tear, 

And, though he fares with slowest feet, 
Joy runs to meet him drawing near. 

The birds are heralds of his cause, 
And, like a never-ending rhyme, 

The roadside blooms in his applause 
Who bides his time. 

Who bides his time, and fevers not 
In the hot race that none achieves, 

Shall wear cool wreathen laurel wrought 
With crimson berries in the leaves: 



EFFORT AND PERSEVERANCE 69 


And he shall reign a goodly king, 


Do not sigh; 


And sway his hand on every clime, 


Do not cry; 


With peace writ on his signet ring, 


All will come right by and by. 


Who bides his time. 






I have seen the high brought low, 
Seen the seasons come and go; 






Fields of bloom and waste of snow, 


WHAT THE CLOCK SAYS. 


Sunny skies and winds that blow — 


Hold fast, dreamer, do not fret! 


And I mark out all the hours, 


Everything will come right yet. 


Whether there are frosts or flowers — 


Life holds nothing worth regret- 


Night and day, and day and night, 


Let the sun rise— let it set. 


Feeling sorrow nor delight. 


I have seen the young grow old; 


Do not cry; 


Seen the fond turn stern and cold; 


Do not sigh; 


Seen the selfish, vain and proud 


All will come right by and by. 


Feed the worm and crease the shroud. 




Do not cry; 


Nothing matters! Nothing can 


Do not sigh; 


In the destiny of man. 


All will come right by and by. 


Vain, alas! all tears and sighs; 




Vain reproaches — vain replies. 


Pearls, and gems, and jewels fine, 


Silence and decay must fall 


Fished from sea or dug from mine, 


Like a shadow on you all; 


Silken raiment, filmy lace, 


And He who made your life a span 


Vanish all and leave no trace. 


Will judge as never judges man. 


Those who walk and those who ride 


Do not sigh; 


Yet must lie down, side by side, 


Do not cry; 


When their cruel master, Death, 


All will come right by and by. 


Seals the eyes and takes the breath. 


—Nelly Marshall McAfee, in Century. 



Learn to be Useful 



WHICH LOVED BEST. 

' ' I love you, mother, ' ' said little John, 
Then, forgetting his work, his cap went 

on, 
And he was off to the garden swing 
And left her wood and water to bring. 

"I love you, mother," said rosy Nell; 
' ' I love you better than tongue can tell. ' ' 
Then she teased and pouted full half the 

day, 
Till her mother rejoiced when she went 

to play. 

1 ' I love you, mother, ' ' said little Fan ; 

"To-day I'll help you all I can. 

How glad I am that school doesn't 

keep!" 
So she rocked the baby till it fell asleep. 

Then, stepping softly, she brought the 

broom 
And swept the floor and tidied the room; 
Busy and happy all day was she— 
Helpful and happy as child could be. 

"I love you, mother," again they said — 
Three little children going to bed. 
How do you think that mother guessed 
"Which of them really loved her best? 



A YOUNG LADY'S SOLILOQUY. 

[The following was published in Cham- 
bers' Journal more than twenty years 
ago, yet many are still hopelessly wait- 
ing an answer to the question without 
making an effort to solve it in a practical 
way:] 

Uselessly, aimlessly drifting through life. 

"What was I born for? For somebody's 
wife, 

I'm told by my mother. Well, that be- 
ing true, 

Somebody keeps himself strangely from 
view, 



And if naught but marriage will settle 

my fate, 
I believe I shall die in my unsettled 

state ; 
For though I'm not ugly — pray, what 

woman is? 
You might easily find a more beautiful 

phiz. 
And then, as for temper and manners, 

'tis plain 
He who seeks for perfection will seek 

here in vain. 
Nay, in spite of these drawbacks, my 

head is perverse, 
And I should not feel grateful "for bet- 
ter or worse" 
To take the first booby who gracefully 

came 
And offered those treasures, his home and 

his name; 
I think, then, my chances of marriage are 

small. 
But why should I think of such chances 

at all? 
My brothers are all of them younger 

than I, 
Yet they thrive in the world, and why 

not let me try? 
I know that in business I 'm not an adept, 
Because from such matters most strictly 

I'm kept; 
But this is the question that troubles my 

mind: 
Why am I not trained up to work of 

some kind? 
Uselessly, aimlessly drifting through life. 
Why should I wait to be somebody's 

wife? 



GEOWN-UP LAND. 

Good morrow, fair maid, with lashes 

brown, 
Can you tell me the way to Womanhood 

Town? 



.-72 



LEARN TO BE USEFUL 



Oh, this way and that way— never a stop ; 
'Tis picking up stitches grandma will 

drop, 
'Tis kissing the baby's troubles away, 
'Tis learning that cross words never will 

pay, 

'Tis helping mother, 'tis sewing up rents, 
'Tis reading and playing, 'tis saving the 

cents, 
'Tis loving and smiling, forgetting to 

frown, 
Oh, that is the way to Womanhood Town. 

Just wait, my brave lad— one moment, I 

pray; 
Manhood Town lies where — can you tell 

me the way? 
Oh, by toiling and trying we reach that 

land, 
A bit with the head, a bit with the 

hand— 
'Tis by climbing up the steep hill Work, 
'Tis by keeping out the wide street 

Shirk, 
'Tis by always taking the weak ones' 

part, 
'Tis by giving the mother a happy heart, 
'Tis by keeping bad thoughts and actions 

down, 
Oh, that is the way to Manhood Town. 

And the lad and the maid ran hand in 

hand 
To their fair estates in the Grown-up 

Land. 



HELP ONE ANOTHER. 

' ' Help one another, ' ' the snowflakes said, 
As they cuddled down in their fleecy bed; 
"One of us here would not be felt; 
One of us here would quickly melt; 
But I'll help you, and you help me, 
And then what a big white drift we'll 
see ! " 

"Help one another," the maple spray 
Said to its fellow-leaves one day; 
"The sun would wither here alone, 
Long enough ere the day is gone; 
But I'll help you, and you help me, 
And then what a splendid shade there'll 
be!" 

"Help one another," the dewdrop cried, 
Seeing another drop close to its side; 



"This warm south breeze would dry me 

away, 
And I should be gone ere noon to-day; 
But I'll help you, and you help me, 
And we'll make a brook and run to the 



"Help one another," a grain of sand 
Said to another grain just at hand; 
' ' The wind may carry me over the sea, 
And then, O! what will become of me? 
But come, my brother, give me your 

hand; 
We'll build a mountain, and there we'll 



And so the snowflakes grew to drifts, 
The grains of sand to mountains, 

The leaves became a pleasant shade, 
And dewdrops fed the fountains. 

— Rev. George F. Hunting. 



SOWING AND REAPING. 

Surely, one man soweth 

While another reaps, 
And the mother waketh 

While the baby sleeps. 

Each one finds a harvest 

Which he never sowed; 
Each one bearing burdens 

Lifts another load. 

Every one is reaper 

From some distant seedj 

Every one is a sower 
For another's need. 

This is law and gospel. 

Sweet it is to find 
When the sowers perish, 

Reapers come behind. 

Praise the God of harvest, 
What is wrought in tears 

Bringeth some one blessings 
In the mystic years. 

Praise the God of harvest 

That another reaps, 
So the labor fails not 

When the sower sleeps. 

—Rev. B. R. Bulkeley. 



LEARN TO BE USEFUL 



73 



LITTLE BBOWN HANDS. 

They drive home the 'cows from the pas- 
ture 
Up through the long shady lane, 
Where the quail whistle loud in the wheat 
field, 
All yellow with ripening grain. 

They find in the thick, waving grasses, 
Where the scarlet dipped strawberry 
grows ; 

They gather the earliest snowdrops 

And the first crimson buds of the rose. 

They toss the hay in the meadow, 
They gather the alder blooms white. 

They find where the dusky grapes purple, 
In the soft tinted autumn light. 

They know where the apples hang ripest 
And are sweeter than Italy's wines; 

They know where the fruit is the thickest 
On the long, thorny blackberry vines. 

They gather the delicate seaweeds 
And build tiny castles of sand, 

They pick up the beautiful seashells— 
Fairy barks that have drifted to land. 

They wave from the tall rocky treetops, 
Where the oriole's hammock nest 
swings, 

And at night time are folded in slumber 
By a song that a fond mother sings. 

Those who toil bravely are strongest; 

The humble and poor become great; 
And from those brown-handed children 

Shall grow mighty rulers of state. 

The pen of the author and statesman, 
The noble and wise of our land; 



The sword and the chisel and palette 
Shall be held in the little brown hand. 

—Mary H. Erout (written at the age of 
fourteen.) 



WHAT CAN YOU DO? 

What can you do, what can you do? 
That 's what the world is asking you ; 

Not who you are, 

Not what you are, 
But this one thing the world demands, 
What can you do with your brains or 
hands? 

What can you do? That is the test 
The world requires; as for the rest, . 

It matters not; 

Or who or what 
You may have been, or high or low, 
The world cares not one whit to know. 

What can you do? What can you do? 
That's what the world keeps asking you 

With trumpet tone, 

And that alone! 
Ah, soul, if you would win, then you 
Must show the world what you can do! 

Once show the world what you can do, 
And it will quickly honor you 

And call you great; 

Or soon, or late, 
Before success can come to you, 
The world must know what you can do. 

Up, then, O soul, and do your best ! 
Meet like a man the world 's great test, 

What can you do? 

Gentile or Jew, 
No matter what you are, or who, 
Be brave and show what you can do! 
— Melville W. Miller. 



Make Good Use of Time 



SO MUCH TO LEAEN. 

So much to learn ! Old Nature 's ways 
Of glee and gloom with rapt amaze 
To study, probe, and plant, — brown earth, 
Salt sea, blue heavens, their tilth and 

dearth, 
Birds, grasses, trees — the natural things 
That throb or grope or poise on wings. 

So much to learn about the world 
Of men and women 1 We are hurled 
Through interstellar space a while 
Together, then the sob, the smile 
Is silenced, and the solemn spheres 
Whirl lonesomely along the years. 

So much to learn from wisdom's store 

Of early art and ancient lore. 

So many stories treasured long 

On temples, tombs and columns strong. 

The legend of old eld, so large 

And eloquent from marge to marge. 

So much to learn about one's self; 
The fickle soul, the nimble elf 
That masks as me; the shifty will, 
The sudden valor and the thrill; 
The shattered shaft, the broken force 
That seems supernal in its source. 

And yet the days are brief. The sky 
Shuts down before the waking eye 
Has bid good-morrow to the sun; 
The light drops low, and Life is done. 
Good-bye, good-night, the star-lamps 

burn; 
So brief the time, so much to learn! 

—Richard Burton. 



NEW EVEEY MOENING. 

Every day is a fresh beginning, 
Every morn is a world made new, 

You who are weary of sorrow and sin- 
ning, 
Here is a beautiful hope for you. 
A hope for me, and a hope for you. 



All the past things are past and over, 
The tasks are done and the tears are 
shed: 
Yesterday's errors let yesterday cover; 
Yesterday's wounds which smarted and 

bled, 
Are healed with the healing which night 
has shed. 

Yesterday now is a part of forever, 
Bound up in sheaf, which God holds 
tight, 
With glad days, and sad days, and bad 
days which never 
Shall visit us more with their bloom 

and their blight, 
Their fullness of sunshine or sorrowful 
night. 

Let them go, since we can not recall 
them, 

Can not undo and can not atone, 
God in His mercy, receive, forgive them! 

Only the new days are our own. 

To-day is ours, and to-day alone. 

Here are the skies all burnished brightly ; 

Here is the spent earth all reborn; 
Here are the tired limbs springing 
lightly 
To face the sun and to share with the 

morn 
In the chrisni of dew and the cool of 
dawn. 

Every day is a fresh beginning, 

Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain, 
And, spite of old sorrow, and older sin- 
ning, 
And puzzles forecasted and possible 

pain, 
Take heart with the day and begin 



again ! 



■Susan Coolidge. 



OPPOETUNITY. 

In harvest time when fields and woods 

Outdazzle sunset's glow, 
And scythes clang music through the land, 



76 



MAKE GOOD USE OF TIME 



It is too late to sow, 

Too late; too. late! 

It is too late to sow. 

In wintry days, when weary earth 
Lies cold in pulseless sleep, 

With not a blossom on her shrowd, 
It is too late to reap, 

Too late! too late! 
It is too late to reap! 

When blue-eyed violets are astir, 

And new-born grasses creep, • 

And young birds chirp, then sow betimes, 

And thou betimes shall reap, 

Then sow! then sow! 
And thou betimes shall reap. 

—Baldwin's Monthly. 



IF WE COULD KNOW. 

Whither do our footsteps tend? 
More and more we yearn to know, 
As life's shadows longer grow, 
And the evening hours descend 
And before us lies the end. 

When the door shall open wide, 
And behind us softly close, 
What to our expectant eyes 
Will the future life disclose? 
Shall we see a morning break, 
Fair and fragrant and serene, 
Seeming like the blessed dream 
Of some unforgotten eve? 
Shall we walk in gladness on, 
Under smiling skies of blue, 
Through an ever deepening dawn, 
Into wide fields, fresh and new, 
Meeting those who came before, 
Knowing each familiar look, 
And each well remembered tone, 
Though so many years had flown 
Since each other's hands we took, 
Saying farewells o'er and o'er? 
Shall we talk of earthly days, 
Speaking low, with bated breath, 
Of the awful mystery 
Of our human life, and death? 
Shall we wonder to recall 
How our hearts were prone to fear, 
How we scarcely dared to hope, 

In any heaven, so fair, so near? 
Ah! if we could only know, 



As the shadoys deeper grow, 
Whither our swift footsteps tend, 
As they surely near the end! 
— Katherine S. Mason, in Boston Courier. 



STEENGTH FOE TO-DAY. 

Strength for to-day is all that we need, 
As there never will be a to-morrow ; 

For to-morrow will prove but another 
to-day 
With its measures of joy and sorrow. 

Then why forecast the trials of life 
With such sad and grave persistence, 

And wait and watch for a crowd of ills 
That as yet have no existence? 

Strength for to-day; what a precious 
boon 

For earnest souls who labor, 
For the willing hands that minister 

To the needy friend or neighbor. 

Strength for to-day, that the weary hearts 
In the battle for right may quail not, 

And the eyes bedimmed by bitter tears 
In their search for light may fail not. 

Strength for to-day on the down-hill track 
For the travelers near the valley, 

That up, far up on the other side, 
Ere long they may safely rally. 

Strength for to-day, that our precious 
youth 
May happily shun temptation, 
And build from the rise to the set of the 
sun 
On a strong and sure foundation. 

Strength for to-day in house and home, 
To practice forbearance sweetly; 

To scatter kind words and loving deeds, 
Still trusting in God completely. 



THE AIM OF LIFE. 

We live in deeds, not years, in thoughts, 

not breaths; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
We should count time by heart-throbs. He 

most lives 
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts 

the best. 



MAKE GOOD 


USE OF TIME 77 


And he whose heart beats quickest, lives 


Come words of comfort, words of cheer, 


the longest; , 


Sweet messages from those most dear, 


Lives in one hour more than in years do 


Still, Nature's vesper chimes are rung, 


some 


And songs by unseen spirits sung, 


Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along 


Float round my head, that on a stone 


their veins. 


Finds rest, I sleep, yet not alone. 


Life is but a means unto an end, that 

end, 
Beginning, mean, and end to all things — 

God, 
The dead have all the glory of the world. 


—Forest and Stream. 




DAY BY DAY. 


—Philip James Bailey. 


Day by day, 




Time flies away! 




Time with his shining minutes melting 




into hours, 


ALONE. 


Measuring your deeds and mine from 


Alone. How can I be alone, 


morn till eve; 


When earth and air and babbling brook 


Cutting, with cruel scythe, both weeds and 


Are pages in that wondrous book 


flowers ; 


Dear mother Nature wrote for me? 


Hastening on the day when each his 


Each bird and bud lifts up its voice, 


work must leave. 


And bids my heart awake, rejoice. 


Time does not stay! 


Even the winds, that gay and free, 


If you, my friend, would joy in deeds, 


Go tripping over hill and lea, 


nor grieve, 


Give greeting with a gladsome tone, 


Do while you may, 


And all I see I call my own. 


Day by day; 


Alone. How can I be alone? 


Day by day, 


Each morn Aurora's ruddy fire 


Years glide away! 


Calls forth a sweet celestial choir, 


Long years, which to the happy child, un- 


That wooed me from refreshing sleep. 


grown, 


The roses lift their heads and say : 


Stretch seemingly forever for the use 


"All hail, kind mate, to thee good 


of man; 


day!" 


How quickly, ere a few decades have 


And from the grassy, fern-clad heap, 


flown, 


Where smilax and clematis creep; 


Their far prospective shortens to a 


From blackened pine, by moss o'er- 


span! 


grown, 


Years do not stay ! 


Cries welcome, as from friends well- 


Would you an honor be to God's great 


known. 


plan? 




Be while you may, 


Alone. How can I be alone? 


Day by day ! 


High in mid-heaven an orb of gold 


Pillars of amethyst uphold. 


Day by day, 


It gleams with love, what 'er betide. 


Life slips away! 


The roe with opal-onyx eye 


life! thou vital fact and mystery, 


Pears from the copse as I pass by. 


Thou only hope and cheer, thou all iD 


The rubies in the shy trout's side 


aU! 


Their silver setting almost hide. 


How dear thou art! And wilt thou from 


Sure, fairer jewels never shone, 


us flee? 


And every radiant gem my own. 


Ah, well! To mortals on this earthly 
ball 

Life does not stay! 


Alone. How can I be alone? 


Though fellow-man doth seem more 


So, fill the chalice ere the final call; 


far 


Live while you may, 


Eemoved than yonder twinkling star, 


Day by day! 


Though not in our familiar tongue 


—F. Clifton Hayes, in Boston Transcript. 



78 



MAKE GOOD USE OF TIME 



LIFE IS TOO SHOET. 

Life is too short for any vain endeavor, 
For useless sighing over vanished days; 
No time for scorn, no time for needless 
praise — 

Life is too short. 

Life is too short for envy to be nourished, 
For sin to cumber up the path we tread- 
Think of the suffering! hear the cry for 
bread ! — 

Life is too short. 

Life is too short for avarice to devour 
And rob men's souls to seek its evil end. 
No time for bitter thought, you know, 
my friends — 

Life is too short. 

Life is too short to waste in tears and 

grieving 
Over the love that came but did not stay. 
'Tis sweet to dream, but dreams, too, pass 

away — 

Life is too short. 

Life is too short— forgive and be for- 
given, 
"While yet we linger; everything is brief, 
There is no time for idleness or grief— 
Life is too short. 
— M. G. Shirley, in Yankee Blade. 



NEVER AGAIN. 
Listen to the water-mill, 

All the livelong day— 
How the creaking of the wheels 

Wears the hours away! 
Languidly the water glides, 

Useless on, and still, 
Never coming back again 

To that water-mill; 

And a proverb haunts my mind, 

As the spell is cast— 
The mill will never grind again 

With the water that has passed. 
Take the lesson to yourself, 

Loving heart and true; 
Golden years are passing by 

Youth is passing, too; 

Try to make the best of life, 
Lose no honest way: 



All that you can call your own 

Lies in this To-day. 
Power, intellect, and strength 

May not, can not last — 
The mill will never grind again 

With the water that has passed. 



BE EAENEST. 

The rank weed grows in a single night, 

While the rarer plant takes years; 
And evil name will leap to fame 

While a good name scarce appears. 
But the rank weed dies in a single night, 

While the rarer plant still blooms on, 
And the evil name will sink to shame 

While the good name's in its dawn. 

The way that is won without any work 

Is not worth winning at all — 
A sudden light — a meteor flight — 

A sparkle— a trail and a fall. 
Fear not, brave heart, where 'er thy lot, 

Like a coral, build deep in the sea, 
And a beautiful land with a glittering 
strand 

Shall owe its existence to thee. 



And if failure be thy part, O heart! 

What compensation shalt thou find 
For thy weary years and bitter tears, 

And thy mission, half divined? 
But this can comfort bring to thee, 

That like a sounding bell, 
Men shall say on the judgment day: 

' ' This little work is done well ! ' ' 
—Ella S. Cummins, in San Francisco 

Town Talk. 



THE RIVER. 

River! River! little river! 

Bright you sparkle on your way 
O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, 
Through the flowers and foliage glancing, 

Like a child at play. 



River ! River ! swelling river ! 

On you rush o 'er rough and smooth- 
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping, 
Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping, 

Like impetuous youth. 



MAKE GOOD USE OF TIME 



79 



Eiver ! Eiver ! brimming river ! 

Broad, and deep, and still as Time, 
Seeming still — yet still in motion, 
Tending onward to the ocean, 
Just like Mortal Prime. 

Eiver! Eiver! rapid river! 

Swifter how you slip away; 
Swift and silent as an arrow, 
Through a channel dark and narrow, 

Like life's Closing Day. 

Eiver! Eiver! headlong river! 

Down you dash into the sea; 
Sea, that line hath never sounded, 
Sea, that voyage hath never rounded, 

Like Eternity! 



I'LL PUT IT OFF. 

Some little folks are apt to say, 
When asked their task to touch, 

"I'll put it off at least to-day; 
It can not matter much." 

Time is always on the wing— 
You can not stop its flight, 

Then do at once your little tasks, 
You'll happier be at night. 

But little duties still put off 
Will end in ' ' Never done ; ' ' 

And "By-and-by is time enough" 
Has ruined many a one. 



THE WATEE THAT'S PASSED 

Listen to the water-mill 

Through the live-long day, 
How the clanking of the wheels 

Wears the hours away! 
Lanquidly the autumn wind 

Stirs the greenwood leaves; 
From the fields the reapers sing, 

Binding up the sheaves; 
And a proverb haunts my mind, 

As a spell is cast; 
"The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed. ' ' 

Take the lesson to thyself, 

Loving heart and true; 
Golden years are fleeting by, 

Youth is passing, too; 



Learn to make the most of life, 

Lose no happy day, 
Time will never bring thee back 

Chances swept away. 
Leave no tender word unsaid, 

Love while life shall last — 
' ' The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed." 

Work while the daylight shines 

Man of strength and will; 
Never does the streamlet glide 

Useless by the mill. 
Wait not till to-morrow's sun 

Beams up on the way; 
All that thou cans't call thy own 

Lies in thy to-day. 
Power, intellect and health 

May not, can not last; 
"The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed." 

Oh, the wasted hours of life 

That have drifted by! 
Oh, the good we might have done, 

Lost without a sigh; 
Love that we might once have saved 

By a single word; 
Thoughts conceived, but never penned, 

Perishing unheard. 
Take the proverb to thine heart — 

Take! oh, hold it fast! 
' ' The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed. ' ' 

D. C. McCallum. 



BETTEE LATE THAN NEVEE. 

Life is a race where some succeed, 

While others are beginning; 
'Tis luck at times, at others speed, 

That gives an early winning. 
But if you chance to fall behind, 

Ne 'er slacken your endeavor, 
But keep this wholesome truth in mind, 

'Tis better late than never. 

If you can keep ahead, 'tis well, 

But never trip your neighbor; 
'Tis noble when you can excel 

By honest, patient labor; 
But if you are outstripped at last, 

Press on as bold as ever; 
Eemember, though you are surpassed, 

'Tis better late than never. 



80 .MAKE GOOD 


USE OF TIME 


Ne 'er labor for an idle boast 


Choose well the path in which you run, 


Of victory o'er another; 


Succeed by noble daring; 


But while you strive your uttermost, 


Then, though the last, when once 'tis won, 


Deal fairly with a brother. 


Your crown is worth the wearing. 


What'er your station, do your best, 


Then never fret if left behind, 


And hold your purpose ever, 


Nor slacken your endeavor, 


And if you fail to beat the rest, 


But ever keep this truth in mind — 


'Tis better late than never. 


'Tis beter late than never. 



Greatness in Little Things 



WONDEKFUL. 

Isn't it wonderful, when you think 

How the creeping grasses grow, 
High on the mountain's rocky brink, 

In the valleys down bellow? 
A common thing is a grass blade small, 

Crushed by the feet that pass — 
But all the dwarfs and giants tall, 
Working till doomsday shadows fall, 

Can't make a blade of grass. 

Isn't it wonderful when you think 

How a litttle seed, asleep, 
Out of the earth new life will drink, 

And carefully upward creep? 
A seed, we say, is a simplle thing, 

The germ of a flower or weed — 
But all earth 's workmen laboring, 
With all the help that wealth could bring, 

Never could make a seed. 

Isn't it wonderful when you think 

How the wild bird sings his song, 
Weaving melodies, link by link, 

The whole sweet Summer long? 
Commonplace is a bird alway, 

Everywhere seen and heard — 
But all the engines of earth, I say, 
Working on till the judgment day, 

Never could make a bird. 

Isn't it wonderfid, when you think 

How a little baby grows, 
From the big, round eyes that wink and 
blink, 

Down to his tiny toes? 
Common thing is a baby, though, 

All play the baby's part— 
But all the whirring wheels that go 
Flying rouna while the ages flow 

Can't make a baby's heart. 
— Julian S. Cutler, in Jewish Comment. 



DO ALL THAT YOU CAN. 

"I can not do much," said a little star, 
"To make this dark world Dright; 

My silvery beams can not pierce far 
Into the gloom of night; 



Yet I am a part of God's great plan, 
And so I will do the best that I can. ' ' 

"What can be the use," said a fleecy 
cloud, 

"Of these few drops that I hold? 
They will hardly bend the lily proud, 

If caught in her chalice of gold; 
But I, too, am a part of God's great plan, 
So my treasures I'll give as well as I 



A child went merrily forth to play, 
But thought, like a silver thread, 
Kept winding in and out all day 

Through the happy golden head — 
"Mother said: 'Darling, do all that you 

can, 
For you are a part of God's great 
plan.' " 

She knew no more than the twinkling 
star, 
Or the cloud with its raincup full, 
How, why, or for what all strange things 
are- 
She was only a child at school, 
But she thought, " 'Tis a part of God's 

great plan, 
That even I should do all that I can." 

So she helped another child along 

When the way was rough to his feet, 
And she sang from her heart a little song 

That we all thought wondrous sweet; 
And her father — a weary, toil-worn 

man — 
Said, "I, too, will do the best that I 
can. ' ' 

—Margaret E. Sangster. 



LITTLE THINGS. 

I threw a pebble out into the lake; 

, The pebble was small 

The lake was wide, 



82 



GREATNESS IN LITTLE THINGS 



But the circling waves, by that pebble 



Pictured a lesson that will not fade 

While men on this earth abide 

I gave of my love to a sorrowing world; 
The word was feeble, 
The world was wide, 
But the love wave met with the sinking 

bark 
Of one who was dying alone in the dark, 
And a psean rolled in with the 
tide. 

I reached to heaven for a sinning soul; 
My prayer was weak, 
But God was strong, 
And sins like scarlet were washed and 

white, 
For the soul that groveled sprang up to 
the light, 

And the weeping became a song. 
—E. H. Chase. 



TINY TOKENS. 

The murmur of a waterfall 

A mile away, 
The rustle when a robin lights 

Upon a spray. 
The lapping of a lowland stream 

On dipping boughs, 
The sound of grazing from a herd 

Of gentle cows, 
The echo from a wooded hill 

Of cuckoo's call. 
The quiver through the meadow grass 

At evening fall — 
Too subtle are these harmonies 

For pen and rule. 
Such music is not understood 

By any school; 
And when the brain is overwrought, 

It hath a spell, 
Beyond all human skill and power, 

To make it well. 

The memory of a kindly word 

For long gone by, 
The fragrance of a fading flower 

Sent lovingly, 
The gleaming of a sudden smile 

Or sudden tear, 
The warmer pressure of the hand, 

The tone of cheer, 



The hush that means ' ' I can not speak 

But I have heard ! ' ' 
The note that only bears a verse 

From God's own word — 
Such tiny things we hardly count 

As ministry; 
That givers deeming they have shown. 

Scant sympathy; 
But when the heart is overwrought, 

Oh, who can tell 
The power of such tiny things 

To make it well. 



ONE AT A TIME. 

One step at a time, and that well placed, 

"We reach the grandest hight; 
One stroke at a time, earth's hidden 
stores 
Will slowly come to the light; 
One seed at a time, and the forest grows; 
One drop at a time, and the river flows 
Into the boundless sea. 

One word at a time, and the greatest 
book 
Is written and is read; 
One stone at a time, a palace rears 

Aloft its stately head; 
One blow at a time, and the tree's cleft 

through, 
And a city will stand where tht forest 
grew 
A few short years ago. 

One foe at a time, and he subdued, 

And the conflict will be won; 
One grain at a time, and the sands of 
life 
Will slowly all be run. 
One minute, another, the hours, fly; 
One day at a time, and our lives speed by 
Into eternity. 

One grain of knowledge, and that well 
stored, 
Another, and more on them; 
And as time rolls on your mind will 
shine 
With many a garnered gem 
Of thought and wisdom. And time will 

tell, 
"One thing at a time, and that done 
well, ' ' 
Is wisdom's proven rule. 

— Golden Davs. 



GREATNESS IN LITTLE THINGS 



83 



INFLUENCE. 

"We scatter seeds with' careless hand, 
And dream we ne'er shall see them 
more; 
But for a thousand years 
Their fruit appears 
In weeds that mar the land 
Or healthful store. 

The deeds we do, the words we say, 
Into still air they seem to fleet ; 
We count them ever past, 
But they shall last— 
In the dread judgment they 
And we shall meet. 

I charge thee by the years gone by, 
For the love of brethren dear, 
Keep, then, the one true way 
In work and play, 
Lest in the world their cry 
Of woe thou hear. 



ONE DAT AT A TIME. 

One day at a time ! That 's all it can be ; 

No faster than that is the hardest 

fate; 

And days have their limits, however we 

Begin them too early and stretch them 

too late. 

One day at a time! 
It's a wholesome rhyme! 

A good one to live by, 
A day at a time. 

One day at a time! Every heart that 
aches, 
Knowing only too well how long they 
can seem; 
But it's never to-day which the spirit 
breaks — 
It's the darkened future, without a 
gleam. 

One day at a time! When joy is at 
height — 
Such joy as the heart can never for- 
get— 
And pulses are throbbing with wild de- 
light, 
How hard to remember that suns must 



One day at a time! But a single day, 

Whatever its load, whatever its length; 
And there's a bit of precious Scripture 
to say 
That, according to each, shall be our 
strength. 

One day at a time! 'Tis the whole of 
life; 
All sorrow, all joy, are measured 
therein ; 
The bound of our purpose, our noblest 
strife, 
The one only countersign sure to win! 

One day at a time! 
It's a wholesome rhyme! 
A good one to live by, 
A day at a time. 

— Helen Hunt Jackson. 



HYMN FOE A CHILD. 

God gave me a little light 

To carry as I go; 
Bade me keep it clear and bright, 

Shining high and low. 
Bear it steadfast, without fear, 
Shed its radiance far and near, 
Make the path before me clear, 

With its friendly glow. 
God gave me a little song 

To sing upon my way; 
Bough may be the road, and long, 

Dark may be the day. 
Yet a little bird can wing, 
Yet a little flower can spring, 
Yet a little child can sing, 

Make the whole world gay. 

God gave me a little heart 
To love whate'er He made; 

Gave me strength to bear my part, 
Glad and unafraid. 

Through Thy world so fair, so bright, 

Father, guide my steps aright; 

Thou my song and Thou my light, 
So my trust is stayed.' 

—Laura E. Richard's. 



LEAEN A LITTLE EVEEY DAY. 

Little rills make wider streamlets, 
Streamlets swell the river's flow, 

Eivers join the ocean billows, 
Onward, onward, as they go. 



84 



GREATNESS IN LITTLE THINGS 



Life is made of smallest fragments, 
Shade and sunshine, work and play; 

So may we, with greatest profit, 
Learn a little every day. 



THE TONGUE. 

"The boneless tongue, so small and 

weak, 
Can crush and kill," declared the Greek. 

"The tongue destroys a greater horde," 
The Turk asserts, "than does the 
sword. ' ' 

The Persian proverb wisely saith, 
"A lengthy tongue — an early death." 

Or sometimes take this form instead, 
"Don't let your tongue cut off your 
head. ' ' 

"The tongue can speak a word whose 

speed, ' ' 
Says the Chinese, "outstrips the steed." 

While Arab sages this impart, 
"The tongue's great storehouse is the 
heart. ' ' 

From Hebrew wit the maxim sprung, 
"Though feet should slip, ne'er let the 
tongue. ' ' 

The sacred writer crowns the whole, 
"Who keeps his tongue doth keep his 
soul. ' ' 
—New York Mail and Express. 



LITTLE THINGS. 

Erom the rising to the setting of the sun, 
How many little things we leave undone. 
With selfish aims or aspirations high, 
We 're apt to pass the humbler service by. 

A little care, a little thought, 

A little deed in friendship wrought, 

A little word, if gently spoken, 

May ease a heart with pain nigh broken 

A little earnest, cheerful work, 

To brighten gloom where shadows lurk; 

A little tender, pleading prayer, 

To help a soul from dark despair. 



A little heartfelt comfort given, 
When all seems lost for which we've 

striven, 
May cure the smart and heal the wound, 
Make life with new-born hope abound. 

Father, make us mindful of the little 

things. 
The small, sweet service that slowly, 

surely brings 
Thy erring children kneeling humbly at 

Thy feet, 
For' tis the little thoughtful things that 

make our life complete. 

—C. E. Crispin. 



LITTLE THINGS. 

Little masteries achieved, 
Little wants with care relieved, 
Little words in love expressed, 
Little wrongs at once confessed, 
Little graces meekly worn, 
Little slights with patience borne; 
These are treasures that shall rise 
Par above the shining skies. 



A SEED. 

A wonderful thing is a seed — 
The one thing deathless forever; 

The One thing changeless, utterly true, 

Eorever old and forever new, 
And fickle and faithless never. 

Plant blessings, and blessings will bloom ; 

Plant hate, and hate will grow; 
You can sow to-day; to-morrow shall 

bring 
The blossom that proves what sort of 
thing 
Is the seed, the seed you sow. 

— Wirt Sikes. 



DEIPTING. 

Drifting away, drifting away, 
Farther and farther off each day. 

Drifting away from the path of truth, 
Old age, manhood, childhood and youth. 

Drifting away from the Holy Book, 
Millions care not in it to look. 



GREATNESS IN LITTLE THINGS 



85 



Drifting away from the sacred page 
In this proud, boasting, reckless age. 

Drifting away from the pure, sweet light 
Into the gloom of the utmost night. 

Drifting, drifting down to the grave, 
Far from the Arm that alone can save. 
—Norman Taylor. 



KINDNESS. 

A little word in kindness spoken, 

A motion, or a tear, 
Has often healed the heart that's broken 

And made a friend sincere. 



FEOM THE GEBMAN. 

Sits the little human Thing 

On the shore of Time's wide sea, 

Gathers in its little hand 
Drops from out Eternity. 

Sits the little human Thing, 

Gathers rumors full of Mystery, 

Writes them down into a Book, 
Names it " Universal History. ' ' 



A SINGLE STITCH. 

One stitch dropped as the weaver drove 

His nimble shuttle to and fro, 
In and out, beneath, above, 

Till the pattern seemed to bud and 

grow 
As if the fairies had helping been; 
One small stitch which could scarce be 

seen, 
But the one stitch dropped pulled the 

next stitch out 
And a weak place grew in the fabric 

stout ; 
And the perfect pattern was marred for 

aye 
By the one small stitch that was dropped 

that day. 

One small life in God's great plan, 
How futile it seems as the ages roll, 

Do what it may or strive how it can 
To alter the sweep of the infinite 
whole. 



A single stitch in an endless web, 
A drop in the ocean's flow and ebb! 
But the pattern is rent where the stitch 

is lost, 
Or marred where the tangled threads 

have crossed; 
And each life that fails of its true intent 
Mars the perfect plan that its Master 



-Susan Coolidge. 



LITTLE DEOPS OF WATEE. 

Little drops of water, 
Little grains of sand, 

Make the mighty ocean 
And the pleasant land. 

And the little minutes, 
Humble though they be, 

Make the mighty ages 
Of eternity. 

So our little errors 

Lead the soul away 
From the path of virtue, 

Oft in sin to stray. 

Little deeds of kindness, 

Little words of love, 
Make our earth an Eden 

Like the heaven above. 

—Brewer. 



GEEAT EXPECTATIONS. 

Every little grape, dear, that clings unto 

the vine 
Expects some day to ripen its little drops 

of wine. 

Every little girl, I think, expects in time 

to be 
Exactly like her own mamma — as sweet 

and good as she. 

Every little boy who has a pocket of his 

own 
Expects to be the biggest man the world 

has ever known. 

Every little piggy-wig that makes his lit- 
tle wail 

Expects to be a great big pig with a 
very curly tail. 



86 GREATNESS IN 


LITTLE THINGS 


Every little lambkin, too, that frisks 


He is a dolt who groans with woe 


upon the green 
Expects to be the finest sheep that ever 


When all the earth is jolly. 
'Tis vain o'er next year's drought to- 


yet was seen. 


pine— 
The wise will never borrow; 


Every little baby colt expects to be a 
horse ; 


The gold now hidden in the mine 
May be a crown to-morrow. 


Every little pup expects to be a dog, of 
course. 


It matters not what man has been, 


Every little kitten pet, so tender and so 


It proves not what he may be; 
The future lies beyond our ken 


nice, 
Expects to be a grown-up cat and live on 
rats and mice. 


Whatever may to-day be. 

Do every task as best you can, 

And laugh at idle sorrow; 




The stranded ship that now we scan 


Every little fluffy chick, in downy yellow 
drest, 


May proudly float to-morrow. 


Expects some day to crow and strut or 
cackle at its best. 


With honest purpose onward press 
While fortune's wheel is spinning; 




We see it turn, but none can guess 


Every little baby bird that peeps from 
out its nest 


The prize that he is winning. 
Let this day's task be done to-day, 


Expects some day to cross the sky from 
glowing east to west. 


With sword or pen or harrow; 
The sun that beams with grateful ray 
May be obscured to-morrow. 


Now, every hope I 've mentioned here will 
bring its sure event, 

Provided nothing happens, dear, to hin- 
der or prevent. 

— Christian at WorJc. 


Life's battle rages fierce and strong, 
But manhood will defend you; 

Be staunch and true through right and 
wrong 
And honor will attend you. 

Sing merrily along your way, 
Though it be rough and narrow; 

The sweating toiler of to-day 


OUE DAY IS TO-DAY. 


To-day is all that we may know, 


May live at ease to-morrow. 


To forecast fate were folly; 


—Francis C. Long. 



Cheerfulness 



SMILES. 

Smiles! what are they for? I will tell 
you— 

All hatred they melt into love; 
They chase away sorrow and trouble, 

With a gleam from the heaven above. 
They make us all cheerful and happy, 

Ah! whether we will or no; 
Can a sunbeam be ever resisted 

"When it falls on a bank of snow? 

We should wearily grope through the 
shadows 

That compass this earthly life 
Were it not for these flashes of bright- 
ness 

That fall on us through the strife, 
To reveal the fond spirits around us, 

The blossoms that spring in our way; 
For the world is not all so dreary 

As some people choose to say. 

The innocent laughter of childhood 

Makes the heart of the aged to thrill; 
At the sweet, merry song of the maiden 

The mourner looks up and is still. 
O the bright, sunny smiles of content- 
ment 
That flecker with light our dull way! 
They will change every hardship to pleas- 
ure 
And the darkest night turn into day. 
—Little Corporal. 



FOE THE SCHOOL BOYS. 

Never look unhappy, boys; 

Be merry while you can; 
Youth is but a Mayday morn, 

Life is but a span; 
If you meet them with a smile, 

Troubles soon will fly, 
So only mark the sunshine, boys, 

And let the clouds go by. 



Don't neglect your lessons, boys; 

Wisdom is a prize 
Greater than earth's riches are; 

Grasp it ere time flies. 
School boy days will soon be o'er, 

Be merry while you can; 
A happy childhood seldom fails 

To make an honest man. 



IT PAYS. 

It pays to wear a smiling face 

And laugh our troubles down, 
For all our little troubles wait 

Our laughter or our frown. 
Beneath the magic of a smile 

Our doubts will fade away, 
As melts the frost in early spring 

Beneath the sunny ray. 

It pays to make a worthy cause, 

By helping it, our own; 
To give the current of our lives 

A true and noble tone. 
It pays to comfort heavy hearts, 

Oppressed with dull despair, 
And leave in sorrow-darkened lives 

One gleam of brightness there. 

It pays to give a helping hand 

To eager, earnest youth; 
To note, with all their waywardness, 

Their courage and their truth; 
To strive, with sympathy and love, 

Their confidence to win. 
It pays to open wide the heart 

And "let the sunshine in." 



WHY DON'T YOU LAUGH? 

Why don't you laugh, young man, when 

troubles come, 
Instead of sitting 'round so sour and 

glum? 



88 



CHEERFULNESS 



You can not have all play, 
And sunshine every day; 
When troubles come, I say, why don't 

you laugh? 
Why don't you laugh? 'Twill ever help 

to soothe 
The aches and pains. No road in life is 
smooth ; 
There's many an unseen bump, 
And many a hidden stump 
O'er which you'll have to jump. Why 
don't you laugh? 

Why don't you laugh? Don't let your 

spirits wilt; 
Don't sit and cry because the milk you've 
spilt ; 
If you would mend it now, 
Pray let me tell you how: 
Just milk another cow ! Why don 't you 
laugh? 

Why don't you laugh and make us all 

laugh, too, 
And keep us mortals all from getting 
blue? 
A laugh will always win; 
If you can't laugh, just grin- 
Come on, let's all join in! Why don't 

you laugh? 
— James Courtney Chellis, in the Inde- 
pendent. 



IF I KNEW. 

If I knew the box where the smiles are 
kept, 
No matter how large the key 
Or strong the bolt, I would try so hard — 

'Twould open, I know, for me. 
Then over the land and the sea, broad- 
cast, 
I'd scatter the smiles to play, 
That the children's faces might hold 
them fast 
For many and many a day. 

If I knew a box that was large enough 

To hold all the frowns I meet, 
I would like to gather them, every one, 

From nursery, school and street; 
Then, folding and holding, I'd pack 
them in, 

And, turning the monster key, 
I'd hire a giant to drop the box 

To the depths of the deep, deep sea. 
— Boston Transcript. 



IF. 

Oh, if summer would last forever! 
Oh, if youth would leave us never! 
Oh, if the joy we have in the spring 
Forever its happy song would sing, 
And love and friendship never take wing, 
But stay with us forever! 
Then— ah, then! if such gifts were given, 
Who of us mortals would ask for heaven? 
— W. W. Story. 



NEIGHBOB JIM. 

Everything pleased our neighbor Jim. 
When it rained 
He never complained, 
But said wet weather suited him. 

' ' There is never too much rain for me, 
And this is something like," said he. 

A cyclone whirled along its track 
And did him harm — 
It broke his arm 
And stripped the coat from off his 
back — 
"And I would give another limb 
To see such a blow again," said 
Jim. 

And when at length his years were told, 
And his body bent, 
And his strength all spent, 
And Jim was very weak and old— 
"I long have wanted to know," he 
said, 
"How it feels to die"— and Jim 
was dead. 
The angel of death had summoned him 
To Heaven, or — well, 
I cannot tell. 
But I knew that the climate suited Jim; 
And cold or hot, it mattered not — 
It was to him the long-sought spot. 
—Atlanta Constitution. 



THE CHEEBFUL HEAET. 

"The world is ever as we take it, 
And life, dear child, is what we make 
. it." 

Thus spoke a grandma, bent with care, 
To little Mabel, flushed and fair. 



CHEERFULNESS 



89 



But Mabel took no heed that day 

Of what she heard her grandma say. 

Years after, when no more a child, 
Her path in life seemed dark and wild. 

Back to her heart the memory came 
Of a quaint utterance of the dame: 

"The world, dear child, is as we take it, 
And life, be sure, is what we make it." 

She cleared her brow and, smiling, 

thought : 
" 'Tis even as the good soul taught; 



"And half my woes thus quickly cured, 
The other half may be endured." 

No more her heart its shadows wore; 
She grew a little child once more. 

A little child in lore and trust, 

She took the world (as we, too, must) 

In happy mood; and lo! it grew 
Brighter and brighter to her view. 

She made of life (as we, too, should) 
A joy; and lo! all things were good 

And fair to her as in God's sight 
When first He said, ' ' Let there be light. ' ' 



Lessons and Examples 



LITTLE FEET. 

Two little feet so small that both may- 
nestle 
In one caressing hand; 
Two tender feet upon the untried border 

Of life's mysterious land; 
Those rose-white feet along the doubtful 
future 
Must bear a woman's load; 
Alas! Since woman has the heaviest bur- 
den 
And walks the hardest road. 

Love, for a while, will make the path be- 
fore them 
All dainty, smooth and fair; 
Will cut away the brambles, letting only 

The roses blossom there; 
But when the mother's watchful eyes are 
shrouded 
Away from the sight of men, 
And these dear feet are left without her 
guiding, 
Who shall direct them then? 

Will they go stumbling blindly into the 
darkness 
Of sorrow's tearful shades? 
Or find the upland slopes of peace and 
beauty, 
Whose sunlight never fades? 
Oh, who may read the future? For this 
sweetheart small 
We want all blessings sweet, 
And pray that He who feeds the crying 
ravens 
Will guide the baby's feet. 

—Philadelphia Times. 



DUTY'S PATH. 

Out from the harbor of youth's bay 
There leads the path of pleasure; 

With eager steps we walk that way 
To brim joy's largest measure. 



But when with morn's departing beam 
Goes youth's last precious minute, 

We sigh, ' ' 'Twas but a fevered dream - 
There's nothing in it." 

Then on our vision dawns afar 

The goal of glory, gleaming 
Like some great radiant solar star, . 

And sets us longing, dreaming. 
Forgetting all things left behind, 

We strain each nerve to win it, 
But when 'tis ours — alas! we find 

There's nothing in it. 

We turn our sad, reluctant gaze 

Upon the path of duty; 
Its barren, uninviting ways 

Are void of bloom and beauty. 
Yet in that road, though dark and cold 

It seems as we begin it, 
As we press on— lo! we behold 

There's heaven in it. 
— Ella Wheeler Wilcox, in Ladies' Romt 

Journal. 



TWO LIVES. 

Two youths from a village set out to- 
gether 
To seek their fortune the wide world 
through. 
One cried: "Hurrah for autumn 
weather ! ' ' 
The other sighed: "Winter is almost 
due ! ' ' 
One failed, they said, for he never was 
thrifty, 
Beturned to the village, and laughed 
and loved. 
The other succeeded, and when he was 
fifty 
Had millions and fame, and the world 
approved. 

But the failure was happy, his smile was 
a blessing, 
The dogs and the children romped at 
his feet; 



92 



L'ESSONS AND EXAMPLES 



While from him who succeeded, though 
much possessing,- 
The little ones shrank when they 
chanced to meet. 
One purchased respect by his lordly giv- 
ing, 
The other won love by his loving ways ; 
And, if either had doubts of his way of 
living, 
It wasn't the one with humble days. 

They never knew it, but both were teach- 
ers 
Of deep life secrets, these village 
youths— 
The one at a school where Facts are 
preachers, 
The other of a world that worship 
Truths. 

— John Boyle O'Eeilly. 



THE LAND OF "MAKE BELIEVE." 

It lies in the distance dim and sweet, 

On the borders of Long Ago, 
And the road is worn by the little feet 

That have journeyed there to and fro; 
And though you may seek it by night or 
day, 

The task you will never achieve, 
For only the little ones know the way 

To the land of "Make Believe." 

Clad in their armor of Faith they ride 

On the wings of their fancy fleet, 
And we hear, as we listen and wait out- 
side, 

The echo of laughter sweet; 
It lightens the burdens of toil we bear, 

It brightens the hearts that grieve, 
Till we wish we could follow and enter 
there 

In the land of "Make Believe." 

And, oh, the wonderful tales that are 
told 
Of the marvelous sights they see! 
For the weak grow strong and the young 
grow old, 
And are each what they wish to be. 
Oh, the deeds of valor, the mighty 
things — 
Too bold for mind to conceive! 
But these are everyday happenings 
In the land of "Make Believe." 



Would you follow the print of the tiny 
feet? 
You must walk as they, undefiled. 
Would you join in their fancies pure and 
sweet? 
You must be as a little child. 
But in vain should we seek it by night or 
day, 
The task we should never achieve; 
For only the little ones know the way 

To the land of "Make Believe." 
— Ida Goldsmith Morris, in Youth's 
Companion. 



THE MAGIC LETTEB. . 

There was a little maiden once, 

In fairy days gone by, 
Whose every thought and every word 

Always began with " I. " 
"I think," "I know," "I wish," "I 
say," 

"Hike," "I want," "I will," 
From morn to night, from day to day, 

"I" was her burden still. 

Her schoolmates would not play with her; 

Her parents tried in vain 
To teach her better, and one day 

Poor "1" cried out in pain. 
"Help me, O fairies!" he besought; 

" I 'm worn to just a thread. 
Do save me from this dreadful child, 

Or I shall soon be dead ! ' ' 

The fairies heard, and heeded, too. 

They caught poor "I" away 
And nursed him into health again 

Through many an anxious day; 
And in his place they deftly slipped 

A broader, stronger letter. 
"The more she uses that," they said, 

With roguish smiles, ' ' the better ! ' ' 

The little maiden wept and sulked 

At first, and would not speak; 
But she grew tired of being dumb, 

And so, within a week, 
She used the substitute: and lo! 

Her playmates crowded round, 
Her parents smiled, and all were pleased 

To hear this novel sound. 

She grew to use it steadily 
And liked it more and more; 

It came to fill a larger place 
Than "I" had done before; 



LESSONS AND EXAMPLES 



93 



And each year found the little maid 
More kind and s-freet and true. 

What was the magic letter's name? 
Why, can't you guess? 'Twas "U! 
—Boston Beacon. 



FATE. 



The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, 
The spray of the tempest is white in air; 
The winds are out with the waves at play, 
And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. 

The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, 
The panther clings to the arching limb; 
And the lion 's whelps are abroad at play, 
And I shall not join in the chase to-day. 

And the ship sailed safely over the sea, 
And the hunters came from the chase in 

glee; 
And the town that was builded upon the 

rock 
Was swallowed up in the earthquake 

shock. 

— Bret Harte. 



JANE JONES. 

Jane Jones keeps a-whisperin' to me all 
the time, 
An' says: "Why don't you make it a 
rule 
To study your lessons, an' work hard an' 
learn, 
An' never be absent from school? 
Eemember the story of Elihu Burritt, 

How he dumb up to the top; 
Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had 

Down in the blacksmithing shop." 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so; 

Mebbe he did — I dunno; 
'Course, what's a-keepin' me 'way from 

the top 
Is not never havin' no blacksmithing 
shop. 

She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully 
poor, 

But full of ambition and brain, 
An' studied philosophy all 'is hull life — 

An' see what he got for his pains. 
He brought electricity out of the sky 

With a kite an' the lightnin' an' key, 



So we're owin' him more'n anyone else 

Fer all the bright lights 'at we see. 
Jane Jones she actually said it was so; 

Mebbe he did— I dunno; 
'Course, what's allers been hinderin' me 
Is not havin' any kite, lightnin' or key. 

Jane Jones said Columbus was out at the 
knees 
When he first thought up his big 
scheme ; 
An' all of the Spaniards an' Italians, 
too, 
They laughed an' just said 'twas a 
dream ; 
But Queen Isabella she listen 'd to him, 

An' pawned all her jewels o' worth, 

An' bought 'im the Santa Marier 'n 

said: 

' ' Go hunt up the rest of the earth. ' ' 

Jane Jones she honestly said it was so; 

Mebbe he did— I dunno; 
'Course, that may all be, but you must 

allow 
They ain't any land to discover just now. 
— Ben King, in Southern Magazine. 



I MEANT TO. 

"I did not rise at the breakfast bell, 
But was so sleepy— I can't tell — 

I meant to. 

"The wood's not carried in, I know, 
But there's the school bell — I must go — 
I meant to. 

' ' My lesson I forgot to write, 
But nuts and apples were so nice; 
I meant to. 

' ' I forgot to walk in on tiptoe ; 
O how the baby cries — oh, oh! 

I meant to. 

"There, I forgot to shut the gate, 
And put away my book and slate. 

I meant to. 

"The cattle trampled down the corn, 

My slate is broken, book is torn—" 

I meant to. 

Thus drawls poor, idle Jimmie Hite 
From morn till noon, from noon till night. 
I meant to. 



94 



LESSONS AND EXAMPLES 



And when he grows to be a man 
He'll heedlessly mar every plan 

"With that poor plea : " I meant to. ' ' 
—Emma Cosand Stout. 



A LISTENING BIRD. 

A little bird sat on an apple tree, 

And he was as hoarse as hoarse could be ; 

He pruned and he prinked and he ruffled 

his throat, 
But from it there floated no silvery note. 
"Not a song can I sing," sighed he, 

sighed he; 
' ' Not a song can I sing, ' ' sighed he. 

In tremulous showers the apple tree shed 
Its pink and white blossoms on his head; 
The gay sun shone, and, bike jubilant 

words, 
He heard the gay song of a thousand 

birds. 
"All the others can sing," he dolefully 

said; 
"All the others can sing," he said 

So he sat, and he drooped. But as far 

and wide 
The music was borne on the air's warm 

tide, 
A sudden thought came to the sad little 

bird, 
And he lifted his head as within him it 

stirred. 
"If I cannot sing I can listen," he 

cried ; 
' ' Ho ! ho ! I can listen ! " he cried. 
—Julia C. B. Dorr. 



WHEN JIM DIED. 

When Jim died, all th' neighbors came 

from fur and near. 
'Pears bike to me they held him just as 

dear 
As mother did an' me; fer they all came 

in to gaze 
Once more on his calm, pale face, an' a 

sort o' haze 
Seemed to settle on their eyes, fer I 

seen th' tears 
A-tricklin' down their cheeks — maybe th' 

fust fer years — 

When Jim died. 



When Jim died, th' birds stopped singin' 

in th' trees, 
Eer they missed him, you know; an' th* 

golden belted bees, 
Ebttin' o'er th' meadows, whispered to 

th' clover 
It would kiss his bare, brown feet no 

more; an' th' plover 
An' the kildee in th' rushes an' th' fen 
Seemed ever to be callin' that he'd never 

come again— 

When Jim died. 

Jim was a curious chap — not like other 

boys; 
He had his own way o' takin' Ufe with 

its joys 
An' sorrows; he loved birds an' flowers, 

an' I'll bet 
He never as much as trod on a timid 

violet 
That peeped shyly thro' th' grass. Like 

music of a flute 
The birds sang to him, but their voices 

now are mute — 

Since Jim died. 

Since Jim died, 'pears like to me mother 

ain't so spry 
As she used to be; there's a sadness in 

her eye 
An' voice that sort o' cuts me to th' 

heart; for Jim 
Had alius ben her pet sence he was born; 

she loved him 
Better than the rest; he was her boy. 

She don't complain, 
Mother don't, but then she's never been 

th' same 

Since Jim died. 
— 'Rochester Post Express. 



BILL WAS THEEE ! 

Bill was just a common sort, 

Never dreamed of wealth nor fame; 

Plodded on and didn 't try 

Schemes to set the world aflame; 

Kept a-going all the time, 
Busy here and everywhere; 

When a task turned up to do, 
Bill was there! 

Never heard him whine around 
'Cause things didn't go just so; 

In the joy he whistled loud, 
In the pain he whistled low; 



LESSONS AND EXAMPLES 



95 



Took things always as they came— 
Never faltered — when things came, 
Bill was there! 

So he didn't make no stir; 

Lived a quiet, busy life; 
Lived a life that didn 't have 

Boom for petty thoughts and strife. 
He had simple work to do — 

Wa 'n 't no call to do nor dare ; 
Just a constant watch, you know — 
Bill was there! 

Such a man as Bill drops out 

And the world goes just the same; 

Doesn't hear Death speak the word 
When he calls him by the name. 

Just the common, plodding sort — 
Bill has certain gone to where 

They'll remember how and when 
Bill was there! 



THBEE THINGS. 

Bemember, three things come not back; 
The arrow sent upon its track — 
It will not swerve, it will not stay 
Its speed; it flies to wound or slay. 

The spoken word so soon forgot 
By thee, but it has perished not; 
In other hearts 'tis living still, 
And doing work for good or ill; 

And the lost opportunity 

That cometh back no more to thee. 

In vain thou weep 'st, in vain dost yearn ; 

Those three will nevermore return. 

—From the Arabic. 



TELLING FORTUNES. 

I'll tell you two fortunes, my fine little 
lad, 
For you to accept or refuse, 
The one of them good and the other one 
bad, 
Now hear them and say which you 
choose. 

I see, by my gift, within reach of my 
hand, 
A fortune right fair to behold, 
A house and a hundred good acres of 
land, 
"With harvest fields yellow as gold. 



I see a great orchard, the boughs hang- 
ing down 
With apples of russet and red; 
I see droves of cattle, some white and 
some brown, 
But all of them sleek and well fed. 

I see doves and swallows about the barn 
door, 
See the fanning-mill whirling so fast, 
See the men who are threshing the wheat 
on the floors, 
And now the bright picture is past. 

And I see, rising dismally up in the place 
Of the beautiful house and the land, 

A man with a fiery red nose on his face 
And a little brown jug in his hand. 

Oh! if you beheld him, my lad, you would 
wish 
That he were less wretched to see; 
For his boot toes they gape like the 
mouth of a fish, 
And his trousers are out at the knee. 

In walking he staggers, now this way and 
that, 
And his eyes they stand out like a 
bug 's, 
And he wears an old coat and a battered- 
in hat, 
And I think that the fault is the jug 's. 

Now, which will you choose — to be 

thrifty and snug, 

And to be right side up with your dish, 

Or to go with your eyes like the eyes of a 

bug, 

And your shoes like the mouth of a 



I. DUNNO AND I. KNOWIT. 

I. Dunno started out on a memorable 

trip, 

With a valiant companion, I. Knowit; 

' ' Let us feel our way slowly, ' ' says slow 

I. Dunno. 

I. Knowit says, ' • Let us just go it ! " 

And one would go fast and one would go 

slow, 
In this trip I. Knowit and slow I. Dunno. 

I. Dunno picked his way, felt about with 
his cane, 
And carefully tested the bridges; 



96 



LESSONS AND EXAMPLES 



I. Knowit rushed on like a late express 

train, 
Over mountains and rivers and ridges; 
He looked back and cried, "Get a move 

on, old slow ! ' ' 
"Oh, I'll go my own jog," said old 

slow I. Dunno. 

1. Knowit got tangled and lost in the 
swamp 
And well-nigh submerged in the mire; 
I. Dunno he found out, in his leisurely 
romp, 
That the ground was too soft and 
went higher; 
"I'll poke with my cane wherever I go, 
And stub along easy," said slow I. 
Dunno. 

I. Knowit crawled out all covered with 

mud, 
And banged and battered with bruises ; 
Says he, "A fellow with fire in his 

blood 
Can duff in just wherever he chooses. ' ' 
" "lis better to go kinder mod 'rate and 

slow, 
And not get banged and battered," said 

slow I. Dunno 

I. Dunno traveled slow, but he got far 
ahead 
Of the rapid onrusher, I. Knowit. 
I. Dunno still said, "Let us carefully 
tread, ' ' 
I. Knowit still said, "Let us go it." 
I. Knowit brought up in the swamp of 

Dontcare ; 
I. Dunno reached the beautiful land of 
Getthere. 
—8. W. Foss, in Yankee Blade. 



A BUTTEEFLY IN THE CITY. 

Fair creature of a few short sunny hours, 

Sweet guileless fay, 
Whence fittest thou, from what bright 
world of flowers, 

This summer day? 

"What quiet Eden of melodious song, 

What wild retreat, 
Desertest thou for this impatient throng, 

This crowded street? 



Why didst thou quit thy comrades of 
the grove 
And meadows green? 
What Fate untoward urges thee to rove. 

Through this strange scene? 
Have nectared roses lost their power to 
gain 
Thy fond caress? 
Do woodbine blooms, with lofty scorn, 
disdain 
Thy loveliness? 

Oh, hie thee to the fragrant country air 

And liberty ! 
The city is the home of toil and care — 

No place for thee! 

— Chambers' Journal. 



CONSCIENCE AND EEMOESE. 

"Good-by," I said to my conscience — 
' ' Good-by for aye and aye. ' ' 

And I put her hands off harshly, 
And turned my face away; 

And conscience, smitten sorely, 
Eeturned not from that day. 

But a time came when my spirit 

Grew weary of its pace; 
And I cried : ' ' Come back, my conscience, 

And I long to see thy face." 
But conscience cried: "I can not, 

Eemorse sits in my place. ' ' 

— Paul Laurence Dunbar. 



LAD AND LASS. 
Oh, lad and lass, the old earth spins 

away! 
To-day is sweet, and sweet was yester- 
day; 
To-morrow's dawn may rise up cirill and 
gray— 

Ah, lad and lass. 

Ah. lad and lass, some day you will 
awake, 

Stand hand to hand and feel the heart- 
strings break, ' 

Drink sorrow from love's cup for old 
time's sake — 

Ah, lad and lass. 



LESSONS AND EXAMPLES 



97 



Ah, lad and lass, the world is hard to 

read, 
And none may tell what fruit shall crown 

the seed, 
But hold forever to the old, old creed— 
Ah, lad and lass. 

—New Budget. 



THE PEAYEK. 

I was in heaven one day when all the 

prayers 
Came in, and angels bore them up the 

stairs 
Unto the place where he 
Who was ordained such ministry 
Should sort them so that in that palace 

bright 
The presence chamber might be duly 

light; 
For they were like to flowers of various 

bloom, 
And a divinest fragrance filled the room. 

Then did I see how the great sorter 
chose 

One flower that seemed to me a hedgling 
rose, 
And from the tangled press 
Of that irregular loveliness 

Set it apart — and "This," I heard him 
say, 

"Is for the Master"; so upon his way 

He would have passed; then I to him: 

' ' Whence is this rose, O thou of cheru- 
bim 

The chiefest?"— "Know'st thou not?" 
he said, and smiled, 

"This is the first prayer of a little 
child," 
— The Collected poems of T. E. Brown. 



THE TAPESTRY WEAVERS. 

Let us take to our hearts a lesson— no les- 
son can braver be— 

From the ways of the tapestry weavers 
ou the other side of the sea. 

Above their heads the pattern hangs; 
they study it with care. 

The while their fingers deftly work, their 
eyes are fastened there. 



They tell this curious thing, besides, of 

the patient, plodding weaver: 
He works on the wrong side evermore, 

but works for the right side ever. 
It is only when weaving stops, and the 

web is loosed and turned, 
That he sees his real haDdiwork— that his 

marvelous skill is learned. 
Ah! the sight of its delicate beauty, how 

it pays him for all his cost! 
No rarer, daintier work than his was ever 

done by the frost. 
Then the master bringeth him golden hire, 

and giveth him praise as well 
And how happy the heart of the weaver is 

no tongue but his own can tell. 
The years of man are the looms of God, 

let down from the place of the sun, 
Wherein we are weaving alway, till the 

mystic web is done. 
Weaving blindly, but surely, each for 

himself his fate, 
We may not see how the right side looks ; 

we can only weave and wait. 
But, looking above for the pattern, no 

weaver need have fear, 
Only let him look clear into heaven — the 

Perfect Pattern is there. 
If he only keeps the face of our Savior 

forever and always in sight, 
His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his. 

weaving is sure to be right. 
And when his task is ended, and the web 

is turned and shown, 
He shall hear the voice of the Master. It 

shall say to him, ' ' Well done. ' ' 
And the white-winged angels of heaven to 

bear him thence, shall come down; 
And God for his wage shall give him, not 

coin, but a golden crown. 
—From a Tract Disseminated by the Bo- 
man Catholic Church. 



IF MOTHER KNEW. 

If mother knew, how gladly would she 

ease the heartache and the pain, 
How gently smooth the brow till this 

tired brain 
Would feel a rest, and balmy sleep 
Would come while still she'd keep 
Her vigil, tireless, far into the night, 
Though others passed me by with cut 
and slight. 



98 



■LESSONS AND EXAMPLES 



If mother knew how much I long for her, 
How day by day I find my judgment err, 
And need her hourly more and more 
To guide my steps and aid me, for 
I feel I know so little of this life 
Where selfishness and cruelty are rife. 

If mother knew how much I 'd give 



To once more have my life to live 
And ask forgiveness for the many tears 
I made her shed in bygone years— 
The many hours of sorow, too— 
How gladly I'd her pardon sue 
For all, and by my life I 'd prove 
Appreciation of a mother's love. 



The Good and the Beautiful 



NOBILITY. 

True worth is in being, not seeming; 

In doing each day that goes by, 
Some little good— not in the dreaming 

Of great things to do by and by. 
For whatever men say in blindness, 

And spite of the fancies of youth, 
There is nothing so kindly as kindness, 

And nothing so royal as truth. 

We get back our price as we measure; 

We can not do wrong and feel right; 
Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure, 

For justice avenges each slight. 
The air for the wing of the sparrow, 

The bush for the robin and wren, 
But always the path that is narrow 

And straight for the children of men. 

We can not make bargains for blisses, 

Nor catch them like fishes in nets, 
And sometimes the things our life misses, 

Help more than the things which it 
gets, 
For good lieth not in pursuing, 

Nor gaining of great nor of small; 
But just in the doing— and doing 

As we would be done by, is all. 

Through envy, through malice, through 
hating, 
Against the world early and late, 
No jot of our courage abating, 

Our part is to work and to wait. 
And slight is the sting of his trouble 
Whose winnings are less than his 
worth ; 
For he who is honest is noble, 
Whatever his fortunes or bith. 

— Alice Cary. 



HE IS A HEEO. 

He is a hero who, when sorely tried, 

Hath yet a firm control 
O 'er all his passions, as they strongly rise 

To battle with his soul. 



The silent battle which the spirit fights, 

Warring against desires 
Unholy and impure, if right shall win, 

To higher good inspires. 

The soul that crucifies an evil thought; 

That keeps a guarded gate 
Of Christian love and brotherly good will 

Between his soul and hate 

Shall stand, in all his manliness and 
worth 
As mightier than he 
Who takes a city in his strength and 
pride, 
Or boasteth vauntingly. 

The shield of purity when nobly worn, 
Where faith has been confessed, 

Is stronger than the cunning coat of mail 
Upon a warrior's breast. 

He is a hero who to truth is true, 

Though lowly and obscure, 
Long after earthly honors fade away 

His triumphs shall endure. 

— Annie Wall. 



WHAT DOES IT MATTEE? 

It matters little where I was born, 

Or if my parents were rich or poor; 
Whether they shrank at the cold world's 
scorn, 
Or walked in the pride of wealth 
secure, 
But whether I live an honest man, 

And hold my integrity firm in my 
clutch, 
I tell you, brother, plain as I am, 
It matters much ! 

It matters little how long I stay 
In a world of sorrow, sin and care; 

Whether in youth I am called away, 
Or live till my bones and pate are bare, 



100 TEE GOOD AND 


TEE BEAUTIFUL 


But whether I do the best I can 


FATHEE TAKE MY HAND. 


To soften the weight of adversity's 
touch 


The way is dark, my Father! Cloud on 
cloud 


On the faded cheek of my fellow man 
It matters much! 


Is gathering quickly o'er my head and 
loud 




The thunders roar above me. See, I 


It matters little where be my grave, 


stand 


Or on land or on the sea, 


Like one bewildered! Father, take my 


By purling brook or 'neath stormy wave; 


hand 


It matters little or naught to me, 


And through the gloom 


But whether the angel of death comes 


Lead safely home 


down 


Thy child! 


And marks my brow with his loving 




touch 


The day goes fast, my Father! and the 


As one that shall wear the victor's 


night 


crown. 


Is drawing darkly down. My faithless 


It matters much! 


sight 


—From the Swedish. 


Sees ghostly visions. Fears, a spectral 




Encompass me. 0, Father, take my hand 




And from the night 




Lead up to light 


THEEE THINGS. 


Thy child! 


Three things to admire: 


The way is long, my Father ! and .my soul 


Intellectual Power, Dignity, and Grace- 


Longs for the rest and quiet of the goal; 


fulness. 


While yet I journey through this weary 




land 


Three things to love: 


Keep me from wandering. Father, take 


Courage, Gentleness, and Affection. 


my hand; 




Quickly and straight 


Three things to hate: 


Lead to heaven's gate 


Cruelty, Arrogance, and Ingratitude. 


Thy child! 




The path is rough, my Father! Many a 


Three things to delight in: 


thorn 


Frankness, Freedom, and Beauty. 


Has pierced me, and my weary feet, all 

torn 
And bleeding, mark the way. Yet Thy 


Three things to wish for: 


Health, Friends, and a Cheerful Spirit. 


command 




Bids me press forward. Father, take my 


Three things to avoid: 


hand, 


Idleness, Loquacity, and Flippant Jest- 


Then safe and blest 


ing. 


Lead up to rest, 


Thy child! 


Three things to pray for: 




Faith, Peace, and Purity of Heart. 






BEAUTIFUL THINGS. 


Three things to contend for: 




Honor, Country, and Friends. 


Beautiful faces are those that wear — 




It matters little if dark or fair— 


Three things to govern: 


Whole souled honesty printed there. 


Temper, Tongue, and Conduct. 


Beautiful eyes are those that show, 




Like crystal panes where hearth fires- 


Three things to think about: 


glow, 


Life, Death and Eternity. 


Beautiful thoughts that burn below. 



THE GOOD AND TEE BEAUTIFUL 



101 



Beautiful lips are those whose words 
Leap from the heart like song of birds, 
Yet whose utterance prudence girds. 

Beautiful hands are those that do 
Work that is earnest and brave and true, 
Moment by moment, the long day- 
through. 

Beautiful feet are those that go 
On kindly ministries to and fro. 
Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so. 

Beautiful shoulders are those that bear 
Ceaseless burdens of homely care 
"With patient grace and daily prayer. 

Beautiful lives are those that bless — 
Silent rivers and happiness 
"Whose hidden fountains but few may 
guess. 

Beautiful twilight at set of sun; 
Beautiful goal, with race well won; 
Beautiful rest, with work well done. 

Beautiful graves, where grasses creep, 
"Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie 

deep 
Over wornout hands— oh, beautiful 

sleep ! 

—Ellen P. Allerton. 



WHEN" GOD MADE YOU. 

When God made you, His touch was one 
of love; 
His molds were flawless and His clay 
was fine 
And pure and white as His own throne 
above; 
He filled your veins with blood like 
rich, red wine- 
When God made you. 

When God made you, He put into your 
eyes 
A witching, winsome love-light just as 
deep 
And blue and sweet as that in His own 
skies; 
Ah, pity 'tis to veil such eyes in 
sleep— 

When God made you. 



When God made you He plucked the 
pinkest rose 
That He could find in heaven's para- 
dise, 
And to your cheeks, before pure white- 
like snow, 
The petals gave their blush in sacri- 
fice — 

When God made you. 

When God made you He took the magic 
brush, 
And to those matchless lips He gave a 
touch 
Of fadeless carmine, warmed by blood's 
red rush, 
Whose pressured caress could I feel 
too much — 

When God made you. 

When God made you He took a sun- 
beam's shaft, 
And, crushing it into a dust of gold, 
He threw it to the gentler winds to waft 
It thro' the meshes of your hair's soft 
fold- 
When God made you. 

When God made you an angel, Cupid 
shot 
A golden arrow swift across the skies; 
It scarcely grazed your cheek, but there 
was wrought 
A dimple far too sweet for mortal 
eyes— 

When God made you. 

When God made you He made you, sweet, 
for me, 
Did not God know the future at your 
birth? 
Unworthy as I am, my love for thee 
Is deep and true, for well I know thy 
worth — 

When God made you. 

When God made you and made you, love, 
for me, 
Think you that He will keep us long 
apart? 
Ah, no ! Our loves will ever greater be 
Than they are now, when we have but 
one heart — 

When God made you. 
— Newt NewMrJc, in Ohio State Journal. 



102 



TEE GOOD AND TEE BEAUTIFUL 



MAEY. 

The sweetest name I've ever known 

Is Mary. 
The dearest girl, the one I own, 

Is Mary. 
When storms are threatening fierce and 

low, 
When all is dark and mad winds blow, 
My only refuge here below 

Is Mary. 
Who's always near me— tho' I'm wrong? 

My Mary. 
Who cheers me on with love and song? 

Sweet Mary. 
Who thinks I 'm just as pure as gold, 
And prays I '11 soon be "in the fold, ' ' 
Who never thinks I'm growing old! 

My Mary. 
If a blessing's due to one on earth, 

It's Mary's. 
If a crown awaits e 'en the lowliest birth, 

It's Mary's. 
Through all her life, tried and true. 
Through all the years, she's been true 

blue, 
And a fellow is blest, I think— don't 
you? 

With a sister like Mary. 
— John W. Kinsella, in the Observer. 

THE MANLIEST AEE THE 
TENDEEEST. 
Do you deem it weak 
That adown your cheek 

The tears of affection fall? 
Nay, the manliest heart 
In the world's wide mart 

Is the tenderest heart of all. 

—Kate M. Frayne. 



EOEEVEE. 

Every golden beam of light 
Leaves a shadow to the sight; 
Every dewdrop on the rose 
To the ocean's bosom goes. 
Every star that ever shone 
Somewhere has a gladness thrown. 
All that lives goes on forever, 
Forever and forever. 



Every link in friendship's chain 
Forged another link again; 
Every throb that love has cost 
Made a heaven and was not lost. 
Every look and every tone 
Has a seed in memory sown. 

All that lives goes on forever, 
Forever and forever. 

Never yet a spoken word 
But in echo it was heard; 
Never was a living thought 
But some magic it has wrought, 
And no deed was ever done 
That has died from under sun. 
All that lives goes on forever, 
Forever and forever. 

So, O soul, there's no farewell 
Where souls once together dwell; 
Have no fears, O beating heart, 
There is no such word as part. 
Hands that meet and closely clasp 
Shall forever feel the grasp. 
All that lives goes on forever, 
Forever and forever. 
—Annette Kohn, in the Independent. 



Miscellaneous 



BE A WOMAN. 

Oft I have heard a gentle mother, 

As the twilight hours began, 
Pleading with a son on duty, 

Urging him to be a man. 
But unto the blue-eyed daughter, 

Though with love's words quite as 
ready, 
Points she out the other duty, — 

' ' Strive, my dear, to be a lady. ' ' 

What's a lady? Is it something 

Made of hoops, and silks, and airs, 
Used to decorate the parlor, 

Like the fancy rings and chairs? 
Is it one that wastes on novels 

Every feeling that is human? 
If 'tis this to be a lady, 

'Tis not this to be a woman. 

Mother, then, unto your daughter 

Speak of something higher far 
Than to be mere fashion's lady — 

"Woman" is the brightest star. 
If you in your strong affection, 

Urge your son to be a true man, 
Urge your daughter no less strongly 

To arise and be a woman. 

Yes, a woman! brightest model 

Of that high and perfect beauty, 
Where the mind and soul and body 

Blend to work out life's great duty. 
Be a woman! naught is higher 

On the gilded crest of fame ; 
On the catalogue of virtue 

There's no brighter, holier name. 

Be a woman! on to duty! 

Eaise the world from all that's low, 

Place high in the social heaven 
Virtue's fair and raidant bow. 

Lend thy influence to each effort 
That shall raise our nature human, 

Be not fashion's gilded lady- 
Be a brave, whole-souled true woman. 



THAR' WAS JIM. 

Wildest boy in all the village, 

Up to every wicked lark, 
Happy at a chance to pillage 

Melon patches in the dark. 
Seemed a tarnal mischief breeder, 

For in every wicked whim 
Put your hand upon the leader— 

Thar' was Jim. 

He was eighteen when the summons 

Come for Union volunteers, 
And the fifn's and the drammin's 

An the patriotic cheers 
Made us with excitement dance, sir, 

Even old men, staid and primj 
And among the fust to answer— 

Thar' was Jim. 

One day when the giner'l wanted 

Volunteers to charge a place 
Where the rebel banners flaunted 

Impudently in our face, 
Seemed as though the cannon's bellers 

Hod no skeerishness for him, 
For among the foremost fellers — 

Thar' was Jim. 

How we cheered 'em at the startin' 

On that fearful charge they made, 
For it seemed that death was sartin 

In that fearful ambuscade. 
Once the smoke riz up a-showin 

Them as up the hill they dim', 
An ahead and still a-goin 

Thar' was Jim. 

Git thar? Wal, yer just a-shoutin, 

Nothing could have stopped them men; 
Each one seemed a howlin demon 

Chargin on a fiery pen. 
Purty tough when next I found him , 

For his face was black and grim, 
Dead, with dead men all around him — 

Thar' was Jim. 

— Captain Jack Crawford. 



104 



ISCELLANEOUS 



THE COUNTKY BOY. 

You'd think, to hear the poets talk 

About the country boy, 
That his life was just made up of all 

Earth's best and sweetest joy; 
They talk about the buttercups, 

The fragrant new-mown hay; 
Well, I guess that I 've been there myself, 

And know as well as they. 

'Tis easy sitting in the shade 

Of "the grand old apple tree," 
To blow about the romance of 

The farmer's life, you see; 
But would they, like, those city chaps, 

Who have so much to say, 
In the burning heat and scorching sun 

To load this fragrant hay? 

And chores, upon the average farm, 

They seem to never end; 
The cows to milk, the wood to get, 

The sheep and pigs to tend; 
And jobs that are too mean for men, 

Fall also to our share, 
And yet they say the country boys 

Are free from strife and care. 

While they 're riding in their coaches fine, 

Or lounging on soft rugs, 
The country boys are pulling weeds, 

Or smashing tater bugs; 
But of all mean jobs upon a farm, 

And I can't mention half, 
The meanest thing is trying to wean 

A well-developed calf. 

Of one thing more I wish to speak, 

Which every boy knows well; 
If a farmer chance to have a call 

From a stylish city swell, 
The best preserves the house affords 

Are piled upon his plate, 
While the boy who picked the fruit is left 

To pout, and cuss, and— wait. 

The time is passing quickly by, 

The boys will soon be men, 
And take revenge by using boys 

As others have used them; 
But I wish those chaps who write that 
stuff, 

Misrepresenting boys, 
Would tell the truth about the thing, 

Or else shut up their noise. 

—Country Boy, in Ohio Farmer. 



CASTLE BUILDING. 

"What are you building, darling?" 

I asked my girlie fair, 
As she quietly sat on the hearth-rug, 

Piling her blocks with care, 
While the ruddy glow of the firelight 

Danced in her golden hair. 

"I am building a castle, mother," 

My little maid replied. 
"These are the walls around it, 

And here is a gateway wide, 
And this is the winding stair 

To climb up by the side." 

So the busy, flitting fingers 
Went on with her pretty play, 

And the castle walls were rising 
In the fading winter day, 

When — a sudden, luckless motion, 
And all in ruins lay! 

Ah, merry little builder, 

The years with stealthy feet 

May bring full many a vision 
Of castles rare and sweet, 

That end like your baby pastime — 
In ruin said and fleet. 

Yes, laugh o'er the toy walls fallen, 

For sunshine follows rain, 
And we may smile, looking backward 

At ruined shrine and fane, 
While the heart has shattered temples 

It may not build aagin. 

— Our Continent. 



THE CHILDBEN, 

THE GIRL. 

My mamma can make me a dress for my 

doll! 
She can make me a tidy to hang on the 

wall! 
She helps me set dinner with my tea set, 
En she puts in my apron a pocket, you 

bet! 
Oh, she makes me bouquets to put in my 

hair, 
En she can fix ribbons on dresses I wear; 
She dances with me and can play and 

sing, 
Oh, my mamma can do nearly everything. 



MISCELLANEOUS 



105 



But my papa can 't tie a bow knot for me, 

He says it 's a bother, an ' he can 't make 
it gee! 

My mamma can make a little red hood, 

En do lots o' things 'at my pa never 
could ; 

She can go in the stores and see every- 
thing, 

En seldom or never bring home anything; 

She can quiet the baby by just saying 
"boo!" 

The wonderful things 'at my mamma 
can do. 

THE BOY. 

Oh the wonderful things my papa can do, 

He can make me a house en a hobby- 
horse, too; 

He can make me a kite en box en balloon, 

En throw a base ball up as high as the 
moon; 

En he can shoot marbles, oh awfully 
straight, 

En draw funy pictures for me on my 
slate ; 

Oh en he can play clown an' dance all 
around, 

En stand on his head right out on the 
ground. 

Oh my ma can bake pies, oh awfully nice, 
But never wants me to go skating on ice, 
Eor she says it might break en then I'd 

fall in, 
En get soppin' wet clean through to the 

skin; 
She likes to have me sit around an' hold 

yarn, 
En help her with baby when she's got to 

darn ; 
En oh she's so nice, but I just can tell 

you, 
She can't do the things 'at my papa can 

do. 

— W. M. Fogarty. 
Indianapolis, Nov. 17. 



INVENTOEY OF A DEUNKAED. 

A hut of logs without a door, 
Minus a roof and ditto floor; 
A clapboard cupboard without crocks, 
Nine children without shoes or frocks, 
A wife that has not any bonnet 
With ribbon bows and strings upon it, 
Scolding and wishing to be dead, 
Because she has not any bread. 



A tea-kettle without a spout, 
A meat-cask with the bottom out. 
A "comfort" with the cotton gone, 
And not a bed to put it on; 
A handle without any axe, 
A hackle without wool or flax; 
A pot-lid and a wagon hub, 
And two ears of a washing tub. 

Three broken plates of different kinds, 
Some mackerel tails and bacon rinds; 
A table without leaves or legs — 
One chair and half a dozen pegs; 
One oaken keg with hoops of brass, 
One tumbler of dark-green glass; 
A fiddle without any strings, 
A gunstock and two turkey wings. 

O readers of this inventory, 

Take warning by its graphic story; 

For little any man expects, 

Who wears good shirts with buttoms on 

'em, 
Ever to put on cotton checks, 
And only have brass pins to pin 'em! 
'Tis, remember, little stitches 
Keep the rent from growing great, 
When you can't tell beds from ditches, 
Warning words will be too late. 

— Alice Carey. 



POETICAL ANATOMY. 

How many bones in the human face? 
Fourteen, when they're all in place. 

How many bones in the human head? 
Eight, my child, as I've often said. 

How many bones in the human ear? 
Three in each, and they help to hear. 



How many bones in the human spine? 
Twenty-six, like a climbing vine. 

How many bones of the human chest? 
Twenty-four ribs, and two of the rest. 

How many bones the shoulders bind? 
Two in each — one before, one behind. 

How many bones in the human arm? 

In each arm two; two in each fore-arm. 

How many bones in the human wrist ? 
Eight in each, if none are missed. 



106 



MISCELLANEOUS 



How many bones in the palm of the 

hand? 
Five in each, with many a band. 

How many bones in the fingers ten 
Twenty-eight, and by joints they bend. 

How many bones in the human hip ? 
One in each; like a dish they dip. 

How many bones in the human thigh? 
One in each, and deep they lie. 

How many bones in the human knees? 
One in each; the knee-pan, please. 

How many bones in the leg from the 

knee? 
Two in each, we can plainly see. 

How many bones in the ankle strong? 
Seven in each, but none are long. 

How many bones in the ball of the foot? 
Five in each as in palms were put. 

How many bones in the toes half -a-score ? 
Twenty-eight, and there are no more. 

And now, all together, these many bones 

fix, 
And they count in the body, two hundred 

and six. 

And then we have, in the human mouth, 
Of upper and under, thirty-two teeth. 

And now and then have a bone, I should 

think, 
That forms on a joint, or to fill up a 

chink. 
A Sesamond bone, or a Wormian, we call 
And now we must rest, for we've told 
them all. 



THEEE AGES. 

BOYHOOD. 

Without a doubt or question I believe 
The story of the Book from God re- 
ceived; 
And when I learned upon my mother's 

knee 
How Christ gave up His life on Calvary, 
It seemed to me that every infidel 
Deserved at least an everlasting hell. 



YOUTH. 

I knew it all. I called myself a muff 
For having faith in that silly stuff; 
I looked with pity on the ignorance 
That could not see through humbug at a, 

glance, 
With pride I called myself an infidel, 
And thought it funny to make joke on 

heU. 

MANHOOD. 

Without a doubt or question I believe 
The story of the Book I now receive. 
With feelings just the same as when I 

heard 
My mother read with reverence God's 

Word. 
A little thinking killed my faith, and 

then 
Deep study brought me back to God 

again. 

— W. L. Riordan. 



THE ENGLISH SOVEEEIGNS. 

[Those who wish to fix in memory the 
succession of the sovereigns of England 
can easily do so by committing the 
following lines. It has been said of the 
first part, that it is not new, but useful; 
and it is thought the second part, though 
new and never having been printed be- 
fore, may be useful also:] 

First William., the Norman, 

Then William, his son; 
Henry, Stephen and Henry, 

Then Eichard and John; 
Next Henry the Third; 

Edwards, one, two and three, 
And again after Eichard, 

Three Henrys we see. 
Two Edwards, third Eichard — 

If rightly I guess — 
Two Henrys, sixth Edward, 

Queen Mary, Queen Bess; 
Then Jamie the Scotsman; 

Then Charles, whom they slew, 
Yet received after Cromwell 

Another Charles, too. 

James Second, the exile, 

Then Mary, his daughter, 
And Willliam, her husband, 

From over the water; 



MISCELLANEOUS 



107 



Next Anne, best woman and Queen, 

Best ruler and wife 
That England had seen. 
George First, from Hanover, 
First King of his line; 
George Second, the next 
Of this house from the Rhine ; 

The third of these Georges, 
For his tax and oppressions 

Was whipped by George Washington, 
Though helped by the Hessians; 

And left to George Fourth 
His curtailed possessions. 

Then William the Fourth, of Hanover, 
too, 
Who, false to his wife, 

To his country was true, 
Who married poor Caroline 

To beat her and kick her, 
And dying at last, while his people 
Sang " Gloria,' ' 

Left the throne to his niece, 
The Princess Victoria; 
Since the Norman, fifth Queen 

(Of the Kings they were peers), 
Who ruled over England 

In eight hundred years. 



OUR PRESIDENTS. 

First Washington, the truly great, 
For eight years sailed the ship of state; 
John Adams next; then Jefferson, 
The latter for two terms came on. 

Then Madison and then Munroe, 

Each two terms served, I'd have you 

know. 
Then J. Q. Adams served four years; 
Then Jackson for two terms appears. 

Van Buren next, called "Matty Van"; 
Then Harrison, one month's brief span. 
John Tyler next; then Polk, James K.; 
Then Taylor sixteen months bore sway. 

Fillmore, the vice, succeeded him; 
Then Franklin Pierce one term came in. 
Then James Buchanan, until sixty-one 
Saw civil war but just begun. 

Then martyred Lincoln, elected twice, 
Set free the slave — his life the price. 
Then Andy Johnson the reins assumed; 
Then Grant, two terms, the hero plumed. 



Next Hayes; then Garfield, whose short 

life 
Soon fell before the assassin's knife. 
Then Arthur, his successor, came 
Followed by Cleveland, of recent fame. 

Ben Harrison the next we find ; 
Then Cleveland for the second time. 
McKinley last of all we see, 
The herald of prosperity. 

— ILineapolis Tribune. 



JOHNNY. 

When Johnny spends the day with us, 

you never seen the beat 
O' all the things a-happenin' in this ole 

house an' street. 

Ma she begins by lockin' up the pantry 
door an' cellar, 

An* ev'ry place that's like as not to in- 
terest a feller. 

An' all her chiny ornyments, a-stiekin' 
'round the wall, 

She sets as high as she kin reach, for fear 
they'll git a fall. 

An ' then she gits the arnicky an ' stickin ' 
plaster out, 

An* says, "When Johnny's visitin' 
they're good to have about." 
I tell you what, there 's plenty fuss 
When Johnny spends the day with us! 

When Johnny spends the day with us, pa 
puts his books away 

An ' says, ' ' How long, in thunder, is that 
noosance goin' to stay?" 

He brings the new lawn mower up an' 
locks it in the shed, 

An' hides his strop an' razor 'tween the 
covers on the bed. 

He says, "Keep out that liberry, what- 
ever else you do, 

Er I shall have a settlement with you an' 
Johnny, too ! ' ' 
Says he, "It makes a lot o' fuss 
To have him spend the day with us ! " 

When Johnny spends the day with us, the 

man acrost the street 
Runs out an' swears like anything, an' 

stamps with both his feet, 



108 



MISCELLANEOUS 



An' says he'll have us 'rested 'cause his 

winder glass- is broke, 
An' if he ever ketches us it won't be any 

joke! 
He never knows who done it, 'cause 

there's no one ever 'round, 
An' Johnny, in particular, ain't likely to 

be found. 
I tell you what, there's plenty fuss 
When Johnny spends the day with us! 

When Johnny spends the day with us, the 

cat gits up an ' goes 
A-scootin ' 'crost a dozen lots to some ole 

place she knows. 
The next-door children climb the fence 

an' hang around for hours, 
An' bust the hinges off the gate an' 

trample down the flowers, 
An' break the line with Bridget's wash 

and muddy up the cloze, 
An' Bridget she gives warnin' then— an' 

that's the way it goes — 
A plenty noise an' plenty fuss 
When Johnny spends the day with us! 
—Elisabeth Sylvester, in the Century 
Magazine. 



BETTER THINGS. 

Better to smell the violet cool than sip 

the glowing wine; 
Better to hark a hidden brook than watch 

a diamond shine. 



Better the love of gentle heart than beau- 
ty 's favors proud; 

Better the rose's living seed than roses in 
a crowd. 

Better to love in loneliness than to bask 

in love all day; 
Better the fountain in the heart than the 

fountain by the way. 

Better be fed by mother's hand than eat 

alone at will; 
Better to trust in good than say, "My 

goods my storehouse fill. ' ' 

Better to be a little wise than in knowl- 
edge to abound; 

Better to teach a child than toil to fill 
perfection's round. 



Better to sit at a master 's feet than thrill 

a listening state; 
Better to suspect that thou art proud 

than be sure that thou art great. 

Better to walk the real unseen than watch 

the hour's event; 
Better the "Well done!" at the last 

than the air with shouting rent. 

Better to have a quiet grief than a hur- 
rying delight; 

Better the twilight of the dawn than the 
noonday burning bright. 

Better a death when work is done than 
earth's most favored birth; 

Better a child in God's great house than 
the king of all the earth. 

—George MacDonald. 



THE MINUET. 

Grandma told me all about it— 
Told me, so I couldn't doubt it — 
How she danced — my grandma danced! 

Long ago. 
How she held her pretty head, 
How her dainty skirt she spread, 
Turning out her little toes; 
How she slowly leaned and rose — 

Long ago. 

Grandma's hair was bright and. sunny; 
Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny! — 
Really quite a pretty girl, 

Long ago — 
Bless her! Why, she wears a cap, 
Grandma does, and takes a nap 
Every single day; and yet 
Grandma danced the minuet 

Long ago. 

Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, 
Always knitting grandpa's stocking— 
Every girl was taught to knit 

Long ago — 
Yet her figure is so neat, 
And her way so staid and sweet, 
I can almost see her now 
Bending to her partner's bow- 
Long ago. 

Modern ways are quite alarming, 
Grandma says, but boys were charming— 



MISCELLANEOUS 



109 



Girls and boys I mean, of course - 

Long ago. • 
Bravely modest, grandly shy— 
What if all of us should try 
Just to feel like those who met 
In the graceful minuet 

Long ago? 



Grandma says our modern jumping, 
Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, 
Would have shocked the gentle folk 

Long ago; 
No, they moved with stately grace, 
Everything in proper place, 
Gliding slowly forward, then 
Slowly courtesying back again, 

Long ago. 

With the minuet in fashion, 

Who could fly into a passion? 

All would wear the calm they wore 

Long ago. 
In time to come, if I, perchance, 
Should tell my grandchild of our dance, 
I should really like to say, 
"We did it, dear, in stately way 

Long ago." 

— Mary Mapes Dodge. 



OUE ARGUMENTS FOE TEMPEE- 
ANCE. 

THE TWO GLASSES. 

There sat two glasses, filled to the brim, 
At the rich man's table, rim to rim. 
One was ruddy and red as blood, 
And one was pure as the crystal flood. 
Said the glass of wine to his paler 

brother, 
Let us tell the tales of the past to each 

other. 
I can talk of banquet and revel and 

mirth, 
Where the proudest and grandest sons on 

earth 
Fell under my touch, as though struck 

with blight; 
Where I was king, for I ruled in might, 
From the heads of kings I have torn the 

crown ; 
From the height of fame I have hurled 

men down. 



I have blasted many an honored name ; 
I have taken virtue and given shame; 
I have tempted the youth with a sip, a 

taste, 
That has made his future a barren waste. 
Far greater than king am I, 
Or than any army beneath the sky. 
I have made the arm of the driver fail, 
And have sent the train from the iron 

rail; 
I have made good ships go down at sea, 
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet 

to me, 
For they said, Behold ! how great you be ; 
Wealth, fame, strength, genius before 

you fall, 
And your might and power are over all. 
Oh, oh, pale brother, laughed the wine, 
Can you boast of deeds as great as mine ? 

Said the water glass: 
I cannot boast of a king dethroned or a 

murdered host, 
But I can tell of a heart, once sad, 
By my crystal drops made light and glad ; 
Of thirsts I've quenched and brows I've 

laved ; 
Of hands I've cooled and souls I've 



I have leaped through the valley, dashed 

down the mountain, 
Flowed in the river and played in the 

fountain, 
Slept in the sunshine and dropped from 

the sky, 
And everywhere gladdened the landscape 

and eye. 
I have eased the hot forehead of fever 

and pain; 
I have made the parched meadows grow 

fertile with grain. 
I can tell of the powerful wheel of the 

mill 
That ground out the flour and turned at 

my will. 
I can tell of manhood, debased by you, 
That I have lifted and crowned anew. 
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; 
I gladden the heart of man and maid; 
I set the chained wine-captive free, 
And all are better for knowing me. 

These are the tales they told each other, 
The glass of wine and paler brother, 
As they sat together, filled to the brim, 
At the rich man's table, rim to rim. 

— Selected. 



110 



MISCELLANEOUS 



IN GRANDMAMMA'S TIME. 

Back in the Golden Olden days, 

When very stiff brocade, 
Stays, patches, powder, paint and hoops 

Bedight each blooming maid, 
My grandmamma, upon a time, 

A bright Thanksgiving day, 
All in her best, with winsome zest, 

Thanksgiving games did play. 

'Twas "Roll the Plate," 'twas 
"Blindman's Buff," 

'Twas merry "Hunt the Slipper," 
And if the sport was something rough, 

The belles and beaux were chipper. 
In each she played with grandpapa — 

A gay young sprig of fashion— 
Tet his rich waistcoat hid a heart 

Brimful of tender passion. 

Of tender passion all unspoke 

Until they heard the fiddle — 
"Roger de Coverley" it played— 

They started down the middle; 
Right! Left! Bow! Swing!— and ever 
swing, 

Then back to place with "setting." 
Perhaps their fingers did not cling, 

Dame Gossip's eye forgetting. 

'Twas as they clung he found his 
tongue — 
The fiddle still played cheerly — 
While soft he said, ' ' Sweet maid ! Sweet 
maid! 
You know I love you dearly. ' ' 

Still— in a frame— she blooms and 
smiles — 
I think she still hears clearly, 

When fiddles play, Thanksgiving Day, 
"Sweet maid, I love you dearly." 

—Martha McCulloch-Williams, in Col- 
lier's Weekly. 



THE LITTLE BIRDIE TELLS. 

It's strange how little boys' mothers 
Can find it all out as they do, 

If a feller does anything naughty, 
Or says anything that's not true! 

They'll look at you just for a moment, 
Till your heart in your bosom swells, 

And then they know all about it— 
For a little bird tells! 



Now, where the little bird comes from, 
Or where the little bird goes, 

If he's covered with beautiful plumage, 
Or black as the king of the crows; 

If his voice is as hoarse as the raven's, 
Or clear as the ringing bells, 

I know not; but this I am sure of — 
A little bird tells! 

The moment you think a thing wicked, 
The moment you do a thing bad, 

Or angry, or sullen, or hateful, 
Get ugly, or stupid, or mad, 

Or tease a dear brother or sister— 
That instant your sentence he knells, 

And the whole to mamma in a minute 
That little bird tells! 

You may be in the depths of the closet, 

Where nobody sees but a mouse; 
You may be all alone in the cellar, 

You may be on the top of the house ; 
You may be in the dark and the silence, 

Or out in the woods and the dells- 
No matter! Wherever it happens, 
The little bird tells! 

And the only contrivance to stop him 

Is just to be sure what to say- 
Sure of your facts and your fancies, 
Sure of your work and your play; 
Be honest, be brave, and be kindly, 

Be gentle and loving as well, 
And then you can laugh at the stories 
The little bird tells! 

— Atlanta Constitution. 



LIFE IN SIX ACTS. 

BABY. 
Sighing, crying night and day; 
Winking, blinking, full of play. 



Fooling, schooling, getting tall; 
Growing, rowing, playing ball. 



Fussing, mussing over a tie; 
Larking, sparking on the sly. 



Cooing, wooing future wife; 
Gushing, blushing, tired of life. 



MISCELLANEOUS 



111 



MIDDLE AGE. 

Slaving, craving, hoarding wealth; 
Driving, striving, broken health. 

OLD AGE. 
Ailing, failing day by day; 
The undertaker ends the play. 

—National Educator. 



GBOWING OLD. 

At six — I well remember when — 
I fancied all folks old at ten. 

But, when I'd turned my first decade, 
Fifteen appeared more truly staid. 

But, when the fifteenth round I'd run, 
I thought none old till twenty-one. 

Then, oddly, when I'd reached that age, 
I held that thirty made folks sage. 

But when my thirtieth year was told, 
I said, ' ' At two-score men grow old ! ' ' 

Yet two-score came and found me thrifty, 
And so I drew the line at fifty. 

But when I reached that age, I swore 
None could be old until three-score! 

And here I am at sixty now, 
As young as when at six, I trow! 

'Tis true, these rogues about my knee 
Say ' ' Grandpa ' ' when they speak to me ; 

But, bless your soul, I'm young as when 
I thought all people old at ten! 

Perhaps a little wiser grown — 
Perhaps some old illusions flown; 

But wond'ring still, when years have 

rolled, 
When is it that a man grows old? 



STOBT-BOOK BOYS. 
Fellows in stories do wonderful things, 
Circumvent robbers and hobnob with 



Then when they're needed they happen 

around 
To save youthful millionaires, pretty near 

drowned. 
Fellows in stories, as sure as you're born, 
Look upon danger with withering scorn, 



Slay stalwart pirates with small pocket- 
knives, 

Do everything "at the risk of their 
lives. ' ' 

Fellows in stories find rocks on the track, 
Save huge express trains from ruin and 

wrack, 
Always wear shirts of a bright scarlet 

hue— 
No other shade for a signal would do. 
Fellows in stories stop runaway steeds, 
Do any number of marvelous deeds; 
Often discover a dynamite plot, 
Go and explode it as likely as not. 

Fellows in stories make villains to quail, 
Know how to follow an Indian's trail, 
Find gold and diamonds hid in the rocks, 
Then "strike it rich" with a very few 

knocks. 
Fellows in stories that clerk in a store 
Save their employers a million or more, 
Get to be partners while still in their 

teens, 
Put in the savings bank most of their 

means. 

Fellows in stories are kidnaped for gold, 
Make their escape through a strategy 

bold, 
Leap from one danger right into another, 
Find in a dungeon a runaway brother. 
Fellows in stories run often to sea; 
Never get seasick — now, how can that be? 
Soon become captains and strut on the 

decks, 
Bescue their hundreds from opportune 

wrecks. 

I am a fellow who never was brave, 
Never saw one that I needed to save, 
Pirates and robbers don't travel my way, 
Might hunt for gold mines until I was 

gray. 
Once, through vacation, I worked in a 

store, 
Earned forty dollars, just that and no 

more; 
Yes, I was watchful, but so was the boss; 
Never could save him a cent's worth of 



Nothing heroic in chopping up wood, 

Nothing heroic in just being good. 

It pleases mother, that's worth while to 

me; 
I'm not a story-book fellow, you see. 



112 



MISCELLANEOUS 



THE WAY OF IT. 

The wind is awake, little leaves, little 

leaves, 
Heed not what he says — he deceives, he 
deceives ; 

Over and over 
To the lowly clover 
He has lisped the same love and pledged 

himself true, 
As he'll soon be lisping and pledging to 
you. 

The boy is abroad, dainty maid, dainty 

maid. 
Beware his soft words— I'm afraid, I'm 

afraid 

He's said them before 
Times many a score, 
Ay, he died for a dozen ere his beard 

pricked through, 
As he'll soon be dying, my pretty, for 

you. 

The way of the boy is the way of the 

wind, 
As light as the leaves is dainty maid- 
kind; 

One to deceive 
And one to believe — 
That is the way of it, year by year; 
But I know you will learn it too late, my 
dear. 

— Century. 



JOLLY WINTER WEATHER. 

Blow, blow; snow, snow, 

Everything is white. 
Sift, sift; drift, drift, 

All the day and night. 

Squealing pig, paths to dig, 

Hurry out of bed; 
Rub your nose, warm your toes, 

Fetch along the sled. 

Red-cheek girls, wavy curls, 
School house down the lane; 

Fingers tingle, sleigh-bells jingle, 
Jack Frost come again. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! now for war ; 

Build the white fort high; 
Steady aim wins the game; 

See the snowballs fly. 



Setting sun, day is done, 
Round the fire together; 

Apples rosy, this is cozy, 
Jolly winter weather. 



VEGETABLE POETRY. 

Potatoes came from far Virginia; 
Parsley was sent us from Sardinia; 
French beans, low growing on the earth, 
To distant India trace their birth; 
But scarlet runners, gay and tall, 
That climb upon your garden wall — 
A cheerful sight to all around — 
In South America were found. 
The onion traveled here from Spain; 
The leek from Switzerland we gain; 
Garlic from Sicily obtain; 
Spinach in far Syria grows; 
Two hundred years ago or more 
Brazil the artichokes sent o'er, 
And southern Europe's sea coast shore 
Beet root on us bestows. 
When 'Lizabeth was reigning here 
Peas came from Holland and were dear. 
The South of Europe lays its claim 
To beans, but some from Egypt came. 
The radishes, both thin and stout, 
Natives of China are, no doubt; 
But turnips, carrots and sea kale, 
With celery so crisp and pale, 
Are products of our own fair land; 
And cabbages — a goodly tribe, 
Which abler pens might well describe— 
Are also ours, I understand. 
— Goldthwaite's Geographical Maga- 
zine. 



MY CHOICE. - 

Genteel in personage, 
Conduct and equipage, 
Noble by heritage, 

Generous and free. 

Brave, not romantic; 
Learned, not pedantic; 
Frolicsome, not frantic; 
This must be he. 

Honor maintaining, 
Meanness disdaining, 
Still entertaining, 

Engaging and new. 



MISCELLANEOUS 



113 



Neat, but not finical; 
Sage, but not* cynical ; 
Never tyrannical, 
But ever true. 



HEALTH ALPHABET. 

The following curious piece of sanitary 
poetry was printed with the menu of the 
dinner of the sanitary convention at Phil- 
adelphia : 

As soon as you are up shake blanket and 

sheet ; 
Better be without shoes than sit with wet 

feet; 
Children, if healthy, are active, not still; 
Damp beds and damp clothes will both 

make you ill; 
Eat slowly and chew your food well; 
Freshen the air in the house where you 

dwell; 
Garments should never be made too tight; 
Homes should be healthy, airy and light; 
If you wish to be well, as you do, I 've no 

doubt, 
Just open the windows before you go 

out ; 
Keep the rooms always tidy and clean; 
Let dust on the furniture never be seen; 
Much illness is caused by the want of 

pure air; 
Now, to open the windows be ever your 

care; 
Old rags and old rubbish should never 

be kept; 
People should see that their floors are 

well swept; 
Quick movements in children are healthy 

and right; 
Remember, the young can not thrive 

without light; 
See that the cistern is clean to the brim; 
Take care that your dress is all tidy and 

clean; 
Use your nose to find if there is a bad 

drain; 
A^ery sad are the fevers that come in its 

train ; 
"Walk as much as you can without f eeliug 

fatigue ; 
Xerxes could walk full many a league; . 
Your health is your wealth, which your 

wisdom must keep; 
Zeal will help a good cause, and the good 

you will reap. 



WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME? 

What is Glory? What is Fame? 
The echo of a long lost name; 
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk; 
The shadow of an arrant naught; 
A flower that blossoms for a day, 

Dying next morrow; 
A stream that hurries on its way, 

Singing of sorrow — 
The last drop of a bootless shower, 
Shed on a sere and leafless bower; 
A rose stuck in a dead man 's breast — 
This is the World's fame at the best! 

What is Fame? and what is Glory? 
A dream— a jester's lying story 
To tickle fools withal, or be 
A theme for second infancy; 
A joke scrawled on an epitaph; 
A grin at Death's own ghastly laugh; 
A visioning that tempts the eye, 
But mocks the touch — nonentity; 
A rainbow, substanceless as bright, 

Flitting forever 
O'er hilltop to more distant height, 

Nearing us never; 
A bubble blown by foul conceit, 
In very sooth itself a cheat; 
The witch-fire of a frenzied brain; 
A fortune that to lose were gain; 
A word of praise, perchance of blame ; 
The wreck of a time-bandied name— 
Aye, this is Glory! — this is Fame! 

— William JKotlierivell. 



THE NEW GIRLS. 

I grow old, and my hair graws gray; 
The wrinkles keep coming in, day by day ; 
I grow gray, and I grow old, 
And the years they mark me with wrinkle 

and fold; 
The seasons come and the seasons go, 
With the turn of the sun and the chill of 

the snow; 
The years slip away and the back grows 

bent, 
And friends to the World of Friends are 

sent, 
And life grows grizzled. But, thank the 

' Lord!- 
Abundant in mercies is spread His 

board ! — 
Whatever may fail as the years run 

through, 
The crop of the girls is always new. 



114 



MISCELLANEOUS 



Every day of every year 
That crop is certain and sure to appear. 
The world never gets to such a pass 
That some of them aren't coming in to 

grass ; 
And there's nothing sweeter, I'll give 

my guess, 
Than a girl just into her first long dress, 
With her pigtails turned into done-up 

hair— 
And the blushing smile that she has to 

wear 
"When her first real beau takes off his 

hat— 
What's in the garden to match with that? 
Be glad, O World, that whatever you do, 
The crop of girls is always new! 

Nina, Bettina, Sally and Fan, 
Barbara, Jenny, Bertha and Ann, 
Nancy, Harriet, Millicent, Prue, 
Clara, Alice, Margaret, Lou, 
Elinor, Mary, Euth and Sue— 
All the old names of my days of dew, 
And just as pretty and sweet and fair 
As in the days when I used to be there- 
No ! — not exactly ! — not quite ! — not 

quite ! — 
My lot could beat them clear out of 

sight — 
But there's nothing to grumble at, 

though, for you 
While the crop of girls is always new! 
— H. C. Bunner. 



BLINDFOLDED AND ALONE I 
STAND. 
Blindfolded and alone I stand, 
With unknown thresholds on each hand; 
The darkness deepens as I grope, 
Afraid to fear, afraid to hope; 
Yet this one thing I learn to know 
Each day more surely as I go, 
That doors are opened, ways are made, 
Burdens are lifted or are laid 
By some great law unseen and still, 
Unfathomed purpose to fulfill, 
' ' Not as I will. ' ' 

Blindfolded and alone I wait; 
Loss seems too bitter, gain too late; 
Too heavy burdens in the load 
And too few helpers on the road; 
And joy is weak and grief is strong, 
And years and days so long, so long; 



Yet this one thing I learn to know 
Each day more surely as I go, 
That I am glad the good and ill 
By changeless laws are ordered still, 
"Not as I will." 

"Not as I will; " the sound grows sweet 
Each time my lips the words repeat. 
' ' Not as I will ; ' ' the darkness feels 
More safe than light when this thought 

steals 
Like whispered voice to calm and bless 
All unrest and all loneliness. 
"Not as I will," because the One 
Who loved us first and best is gone 
Before us on the road, and still 
For us must all His love fulfill, 
Not as we will." 

—Helen Hunt Jackson. 



ON VALENTINE'S DAY. 

Lock your hearts up well to-day, 
There's a rascal thief about; 

Throw the precious key away 
If you'd keep him out. 

He 's a master of deceit, 

He's a flatterer, and so 
He will call you all that's sweet — 

Which you are, I know. 

All his tricks and wiles he '11 try, 
Tempting you as best he can; 

He is such a shrewd and sly, 
Clever little man. 

Hidden in his burglar 's kit, 

Well he knows that safe in there 

Is the very key to fit — 
Sweetheart, have a care! . 

Yet I may as well confess; 

Love is what he calls this key, 
And his name is Cupid — yes, 

And he comes from me. 
-Frank Dempster Sherman, in Smart 
Set. 



YEARS AND YEAES AGO. 

Years and years and years agone, 

When you were seven and I was five, 
We used to sit on the garden wall, 
Clinging together lest we should fall, 
Wondering how to get down alive! 



MISCELLANEOUS 



115 



Years and years and years gone by, 

When you were little and I was small, 
We played together, you and I, 
And sobbed and kissed as we said ' ' good- 
bye," 
There at the gate in the garden wall. 

Years and years and years have past, 

And you are pretty and I am tall, 
And we meet once more by the garden 

gate; 
But we don't kiss now, we're grand and 

great ; 
We bow and curtsey with lots of state — 
It isn't so pleasant after all. 



SHORTEM SHY AND HERBERT 
SPENCER. 

Shortem Shy plays 'round my knee 

While I read Herbert Spencer; 
But still the more I read and read 

My ignorance grows denser; 
Eor Shortem Shy decries my taste 

And tells me every minute, 
"Say, papa, I don't like that book; 

There ain 't no lions in it. ' ' 

Now, Herbert Spencer is a great, 

A world-compelling thinker; 
No heavy plummet line of truth 

Goes deeper than his sinker. 
But one man reads his work way through 

For thousands that begin it. 
They leave one-half the leaves uncut — 

' ' There ain 't no lions in it. ' ' 

The age-old errors in their den 

Does Herbert Spencer throttle, 
And ranks with Newton, Bacon, Kant 

And ancient Aristotle. 
The mighty homage of the few — 

These towering giants win it; 
The millions shun their hunting ground — 

''There ain't no lions in it." 

I leave this metaphysie swamp, 

Thick grown with sturdy scions, 
And roam the Meadows of Romance 

With Shortem and his lions. 
He brings his gaudy Noah's Ark book 

And begs me to begin it; 
"Better than Hubbut Peneer book, 

That ain 't no lions in it. 



' ' Now wead about the ef alunt 

So big he scares the people; 
An' wead about the kangerwoo 

Who jumps up on the 'teeple." 
So I take up the Noah's Ark book 

And sturdily begin it, 
And read about the "efalunts" 

And lions that are in it. 

Shortem will grow in soberness, 

His life become intenser; 
Some day he'll drop his "efalunts" 

And take up Herbert Spencer. 
But lif e can have no happier years 

Than glad years that begin it, 
And life sometimes grows dull and tame 

That has no lions in it. 

—S. W. Foss. 



THE UNDERLAND. 
When I was, oh, so much smaller, 

And so much nearer the ground, 
The dear, queer things I could hear and 
see! 

The wonderful things I found! 
I mined on the mole-hill mountains, 

I toiled in the valleys of sand, 
And the gems untold and the pebble-gold 

I shut away in my hand! 

When I was, oh, so much smaller, 

Wherever I chanced to pass 
I saw the ants and the little brown bugs 

Climb up on the blades of grass ! 
I traveled, I and the little brown bugs, 

Through a forest vast and sweet, 
Whose shadowy glades I know no more, 

Because it is under my feet! 

When I was, oh, so much smaller, 

And so much nearer the floor, 
The leagues of its carpet prairie! 

The flowers that scattered it o'er! 
The house — what a boundless kingdom! 

What mysteries came and went! 
Each chair was a wayside boulder, 

Each table a spreading tent! 
The lamps were moons hung in heaven, 

And the big folks giant-high; 
Away up on father's shoulder 

I could reach clear into the sky! 

I'm glad I am coming up taller! 

We can't stay close to the ground! 
Yet I think, oh, often and often, 

Of the wonderful things I found! 



116 



MISCELLANEOUS 



Of the hills, and the -wonderful valleys, 
Of the byways, memory-sweet, 

The land that I left behind me 
When I grew away from my feet! 

—Catharine Young Glen, in the Youth' & 
Companion. 



THE CHILDREN'S MUSIC. 

We ask where the magie came from 

That made her so wondrous fair, 
As she stood with the sunlight touching 

Her gloss of golden hair. 
And her blue eyes looked toward heaven, 

As though they could see God there. 
"Hush," said the child; "can't you 
hear it, 

The music that's everywhere?" 

God help us, we could not hear it; 

Our hearts were heavy with pain; 
We heard men toiling and wrangling, 

We heard the whole world complain; 
And the sound of a mocking laughter 

We heard again and again, 
But we lost all faith in the music — 

We had listened so long in vain. 

"Can't you hear it?" the young child 
whispered, 

And sadly we answered, "No. 
We might have fancied we heard it 

In the days of long ago; 
But the music is all a delusion; 

Our reason has told us so, 
And you will forget that you heard it 

When you know the sound of woe." 

Then one spoke out from among us 

Who had nothing left to fear; 
Who had given his life for others, 

And been repaid with a sneer. 
And his face was lit with a glory, 

And his voice was calm and clear, 
And he said, ' ' I can hear the music 

Which the little children hear." 

— F. M. Owen. 



TRIBULATIONS. 

She was the prettiest girl, I ween, 
That mortal eye had ever seen; 
Her name was Annabel Christine, 
Her cheeks were smoothed with vaseline, 
Her bangs were curled with bandoline, 



Her teeth were brushed with fine dentine, 

Her face was touched with coaline, 

Her gloves were cleaned with gasoline, 

She wore a dress of grenadine 

Looped o 'er a skirt of brilliantine ; 

Her petticoat was bombazine, 

Her foot was shod with a kid bootine, 

Her wounds were healed with cosmoline; 

She sailed away from Muscatine 

In a ship they called a brigantine ; 

She flirted with a gay marine 

Till they reached the republic Argentine, 

Where they were married by a dean 

And lived on oleomargarine; 

Also the mild tin clad sardine, 

And did disturb the Boston bean 

When boiled and served in a soup tureen. 

Salt pork they ate, both fat and lean, 

When garnished round with parsley 

green ; 
And likewise lobster coraline, 
With lemons sliced its form to screen. 
In short, they lived a king and queen, " 
In manhood's pride and beauty's sheen, 
For on them there was nothing mean. 
His looks and language were serene, 
He wore a coat of velvetine. 
She kept her parlor neat and clean, 
Her favorite dye was aniline; 
She rocked the cradle by machine, 
And named the baby Josephine, 
Yet never was a brighter scene 
Than when that girl, at sweet sixteen, 
Entered the room with haughty mien. 
— Hartford Times. 



THE MEREIE PLOWBOT. 

Now the merrie plowboy hiketh 

Down the back stairs on a jump, 
To the bar of soap alluring 

In the basin by the pump. 
Then he springeth to the stable 

Where he cutteth up the feed, 
For the patient cattle waiting 

And the old rheumatic steed. 



Then he chocketh down his fodder - 

Pork in fat and overdone ; 
Snatched up the soggy biscuit 

Which he eateth on the run. 
How he humpeth on the harness 

In a momentary jiff 
On the framework of the horses 

That are standing sore and stiff. 



MISCELLANEOUS 



117 



He surmounteth lady fashion 

On the off nag very prim — 
Ah, to sitteth there a-straddle 

Meaneth splitting limb from limb. 
Where the suckers waiteth eager 

In the mill dam there below, 
Casteth he with wistful longing 

Glances full of tears and woe. 

Then he turneth up the furrow — 

And the angle wormlet, he, 
Squirmeth there in all his glory 

In abandon gay and free. 
And the plowboy's perturbation 

Aireth words a-full of woe — 
"It's dern tough to be a plowin' 

When the fish are bitin' so! " 



DOLLARS AND CENTS. 

I'll write you a ballad on dollars and 
cents, 
Every tine shall be perfectly true; 
And I 'm writing these verses on purpose, 
my friend, 
To present a few home truths to you. 

A quarter looks small when you're out 
with ' ' the boys, ' ' 
Fifty cents or a dollar soon goes, 
And a ride on a car or a beer is but five, 
Which is "nothing — as every one 
knows. ' ' 
If you squander a quarter each day of 
your life, 
Though it may seem remarkably queer, 
If you'd put it away in the bank you 
would have $91.25 
In a year. 

But a quarter a day isn't half what you 
waste, 
If you count your occasional sprees; 
What you waste will well pay for your 
board and your clothes. 
And the rest you can save if you please. 

So shut off your treating and walk when 
you can, 
And give up the excitements you've 
craved, 
And you'll be quite surprised at the end 
of the year 
At the tidy amount you have saved. 



THE DYING BOY. 

It must be sweet, in childhood, to give 

back 
The spirit to its Maker; ere the heart 
Has grown familiar with the paths of sin, 
And sown, to garner up its bitter fruits. 
I knew a boy whose infant feet had trod 
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs, 
And when the eighth came round, and 

called him out 
To revel in its light, he turned away, 
And sought his chamber to lie down and 

die. 

'Twas night; he summoned his accus- 
tomed friends, 
And on this wise bestowed his last be- 
quest. 
"Mother, I'm dying now! 
There's a deep suffocation in my breast, 
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed ; 
And on my brow 
I feel the cold sweat stand; 
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my 

breath 
Comes feebly on. Oh! tell me, is this 
death? 

"Mother, your hand; 
Here, lay it on my wrist, 
And place the other thus beneath my 

head, 
And say, sweet mother, say, when I am 
dead, 
Shall I be missed? 
Never beside your knee 
Shall I kneel down again at night to 

pray; 
Nor with the morning wake and sing the 
lay 
You taught me! 

"Oh, at the time of prayer, 
When you look round, and see a vacant 

seat, 
You will not wait then for my coming 
feet; 
You'll miss me there. 
Father, I am going home! 
To the good home you spoke of, that blest 

land, 
Where it is one bright summer always, 
and 
Storms do never come. 

"I must be happy then 
From pain and death you say I shall be 
free, 



118 



MISCELLANEOUS 



That sickness never enters there, and we 
Shall meet again. 
Brother, the little spot 
I used to call my garden, where long 

hours 
We've stayed to watch the budding 
things and flowers, 
Forget it not! 

' ' Plant there some box or pine, 
Something that lives in winter, and will 

be 
A verdant offering to my memory, 

And call it mine! 

"Sister, my young rose tree, 
That all the spring has been my pleasant 

care, 
Just putting forth its leaves so green and 
fair, 

I give to thee; 

And when its roses bloom, 
I shall be far away, my short life done; 
But will you not bestow a single one 

Upon my tomb? 

' ' Now, mother, sing the tune 
You sang last night. I 'm weary, and must 

sleep, 
Who was it called my name? Nay, do 
not weep, 
You'll all come soon?" 

Morning spread over earth her rosy 
wings, 

And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory 
pale, 

Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air 

Came through the open window, freighted 
with 

The savory odors of the early spring; 

He breathed it not; the laugh of pass- 
ers-by 

Jarred like a discord in some mournful 
tune, 

But wakened not his slumber. He was 
dead. 

Lo! He was dead. 



WHAT'S IN A SMILE? 

What's in a smile? — ah, much I find, 

A smile can soothe, or pain the mind; 



A smile's an index of the soul; 
Try then thy muscles to control. 

The smile of scorn— I've felt its power; 
What is there harder to endure? 
I've read it in the maiden's face, 
The scornful smile my eye can trace. 

The smile of hate — that I can bear; 
For smiles of foes, I do not care; 
The smile of pride, my spirit grieves, 
The smile of love, my heart relieves. 

There 's meaning always in a smile ; 
The trusting heart it may beguile ; 
Love, hate, contempt, or pride, I trace, 
"Fair lady" in thy smiling face. 



BEAUTIFUL EXTEACT. 

Oh, if there is one law above the rest 
Written in wisdom — if there is a word- 
That I would trace with a pen of fire 
Upon the unsullied temper of a child — 
If there is anything that keeps the mind 
Open to angel visits, and repels 
The ministry of ill— 'tis human love ! 
God has made nothing worthy of con- 
tempt. 
The smallest pebble in the well of truth 
Has its peculiar meanings, and will stand 
When man's best monuments wear fast 

away. 
The law of Heaven is love — and though 

its name 
Has been usurped by passion, and 

prof an 'd 
To its unholy vises through all time, 
Still, the eternal principle is pure; 
And in these deep affections that we feel 
Omnipotent within us, can we see 
The lavish measure in which love is 

giv'n. 
And in the yearning tenderness of a child, 
For every bird that sings above its head ; 
And every creature feeding on the hills, 
And every tree and flower, and running 

brook, 
We see how everything was made to love, 
And how they err, who in a world like 

this, 
Find anything to hate but human pride. 



Old Sayings and Oddities 



OLD SAWS IN EHYME. 

Actions speak louder than words ever do; 
You can 't eat your cake and hold on to it, 
too. 

"When the cat is away, then the little 

mice play; 
Where there is a will there is always a 

way. 

There is no use of crying o'er milk that 

is spilt; 
No accuser is needed by conscience of 

guilt. 

There must be some fire wherever is 

smoke ; 
The pitcher goes oft to the well till it's 

broke. 

By rogues falling out honest men get 

their due; 
Whoever it fits, he must put on the shoe. 

All work and no play will make Jack a 

dull boy; 
A thing of much beauty is ever a joy. 

A half a loaf is better than no bread at 

all; 
And pride always goeth before a sad 

fall. 

Fast bind and fast find, have two strings 

to your bow; 
Contentment is better than riches, we 

know. 

The devil finds work for hands idle to do ; 
A miss is as good as a mile is to you. 

You speak of the devil he's sure to ap- 
pear; 

You can't make a silk purse from out a 
sow's ear. 



A man by his company always is known; 
Who lives in a glass house should not 
throw a stone. 

Speech may be silver, but silence is gold; 
There's never a fool like the fool who 
is old. 

—Detroit Free Press. 



AN ALPHABETICAL EHYME. 

There is a farmer who is Y's 

Enough to take his E's, 
And study Nature with his I 'a 

And think as what he C's. 

He hears the clatter of the J's 

As they each other T's, 
And Z's that when a tree DK's 

It makes a home for B's. 

A pair of oxen he will U's 

With many haws and G's, 
And their mistakes he will XQ's 

While plowing for his P's. 

In raising crops, he all XL's, 

And therefore little O's, 
And when he hoes his soil by spells 

He also soils his hose. 

—Whitehall Times. 



IDIOSYNCRASIES. 

The idiosyncrasies of the English lan- 
guage are no better illustrated than in 
the following doggerel which is sailing 
around the newspapers: 
Eemember, though box in the plural 

makes boxes, 
The plural of ox should be oxen, not 

oxes; 
And remember, though fleece in the plural 

is fleeces, 
The plural of goose is not gooses nor 

geeses ; 



120 



OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES 



And remember, though house in the plural 

is houses, 
The plural of mouse should be mice, and 

not mouses. 
Mouse, it is true, in the plural is mice, 
But the plural of house should be houses, 

not hic.e; 
And foot, it is true, is the plural of 

feet, 
But the plural of root should be roots and 

not reet. 



OLD SAWS IN EHYME. 

The wrong pig by the ear; still waters 

run deep; 
There is in each flock a very black 



No fool like an old fool; a hard row to 

hoe; 
A straw shows the way the wind chanceth 

to blow. 
Where smoke is there's fire; no news is 

good news; 
111 news travels fast and a beggar can't 

choose. 
Whatever 's worth doing is worth doing 

well; 
If you give him an inch he'll take surely 

an ell. 
'Tis the last straw that breaks camel's 

back; hit or miss; 
Wisdom is folly when ignorance is bliss; 
Save at the spigot and lose at the bung; 
A man can not drown who is born to be 

hung. 
Little pitchers have big ears; as thin as 

a rail; 
In the dark are all cats black; as slow as 

a snail. 
As proud as a peacock; as meek as a 

lamb; 
As pretty as a picture; as old as a 

clam. 
Set a thief to catch thief; barking 

dogs never bite; 
Easy come, easy go, and two wrongs 

make no right. 
Same old two-and-sixpence ; both tarred 

by same stick; 
Fine feathers make fine birds; a hint 

beats a kick. 
Butter won't melt in his mouth; give and 

take; 
The devil his own loves ; hard lines ; make 

or break. 



Actions speak louder than words; kill or 

cure; 
Good intentions pave hell; to the pure 

all is pure. 
When in doubt take the trick; look first 

e'er you leap; 
Take time by the forelock ; catch a weasel 



Every man for himself, and the devil for 

us all. 
When the blind lead the blind in the 

ditch tumble all. 
He eats humble pie; drowning men at 

straws clutch; 
Too big for his buttons; it just beats 

the Dutch; 
Making mountains of mole, hills ; still pig 

get3 most swill; 
Blood's thicker than water; each Jack 

has his Jill. 
Slow and sure; fast and loose; hail fel- 
low well met; 
All things are fish that come into his 

net. 
Soft answer turns wrath; every dog has 

his day; 
Where there is a will there is always 

a way. 

— E. C. Dodge, in Goodall's Sun. 



THE SPELLING MATCH. 

Ten little children standing in a line, 
' ' F-u-l-y, fully, ' ' then there were nine. . 

Nine puzzled faces, fearful of their fate, 
"C-i-1-l-y, silly," then there were eight. 

Eight pairs of blue eyes, bright as stars 

of heaven, 
' ' B-u-s-s-y, busy, ' ' then there were seven. 

Seven grave heads, shaking in an awful 

fix, 
"L-a-i-d-y, lady," then there were six. 

Six eager darlings, determined each to 

strive, 
"D-u-t-i-e, duty," then there were five. 

Five hearts so anxious, beating more and 

more, 
" S-c-o-M-a-r, scholar," then there were 

four. 



OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES 



121 



Four mouths like rosebuds on a red rose 

tree, 
' ' M-e-r-y, merry, ' ' then there were three. 

Three pairs of pink ears, listening keen 

and true, 
' ' O-n-1-e-y, only, ' ' then there were two. 

Two sturdy laddies, ready both to run, 
' ' T-u-r-k-y, turkey, ' ' then there was one. 

One head of yellow hair, bright in the 

sun, 
"H-e-r-o, hero," the spelling match was 

won. 

—New Orleans Picayune. 



OLD SAYINGS. 

As poor as a church mouse, 

As thin as a rail; 
As fat as a porpoise, 

As rough as a gale; 
As brave as a lion, 

As spry as a cat; 
As bright as a sixpence, 

As weak as a rat. 

As proud as a peacock, 

As sly as a fox; 
As mad as a March hare, 

As strong as an ox; 
As fair as a lily, 

As empty as air; 
As rich as Croesus, 

As cross as a bear. 

As pure as an angel, 

As neat as a pin; 
As smart as a steel trap, 

As ugly as sin; 
As dead as a door-nail, 

As white as a sheet; 
As flat as a pancake, 

As red as a beet. 

As round as an apple, 

As black as your hat; 
As brown as a berry, 

As blind as a bat; 
As mean as a miser, 

As full as a tick; 
As plump as a partridge, 

As sharp as a stick. 



As clean as a penny, 

As dark as a pall; 
As hard as a millstone, 

As bitter as gall; 
As fine as a fiddle, 

As clear as a bell; 
As dry as a herring, 

As deep as a well. 

As light as a feather, 

As firm as a rock; 
As stiff as a poker, 

As calm as a clock; 
As green as a gosbng, 

As brisk as a bee; 
And now let me stop, 

Lest you weary of me. 



AN UNILITEBAL POEM. 

In a volume of poems, "Songs of 
Singularity," by the Landon Hermit, re- 
cently published in England, is the fol- 
lowing specimen of alliteration. It is 
supposed to be a serenade in M flat, sung 
by Maj. Marmaduke Muttonhead to 
Mademoiselle Madeline Mendazo Mar- 
riot: 

My Madeline ! My Madeline ! 
Mark my melodious midnight moans, 
Much may my melting music mean, 
My modulated monotones. 

My mandolin's mild minstrelsy, 
My mental music magazine, 
My mouth, my mind, my memory, 
Must mingling murmur "Madeline." 

Muster 'mid midnight masquerade, 
Mark Moorish maidens, matrons mien, 
'Mongst Murcia's most majestic maids, 
Match me my matchless Madeline. 

Mankind's malevolence may make 
Much melancholy music mine; 
Many my motives may mistake, 
My modest merits much, malign. 

My Madeline 's most mirthful mood 
Much mollifies my mind's machine; 
My mournf ulness 's magnitude 
Melts — makes me merry, Madeline! 

Match-making ma's machinate, 
Maneuvering misses me misween; 
Mere money may make many mate 
My magic motto's— "Madeline. " 



122 



OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES 



Melt, most mellifluous meloldy 
'Midst Murcia's misty mounts marine, 
Meet me by moonlight — marry me, 
Madonna mia! — Madeline. 

—New York Tribune. 



THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 

A pretty deer is dear to me, 

A hare with downy hair; 
I love a hart with all my heart, 

But barely bear a bear, 
"lis plain that no one takes a plane 

To pare a pair of pears ; 
A rake, though, often takes a rake 

To tear away the tares. 
All rays raise thyme, time razes all; 

And through the whole, hole wears. 
A writ, in writing ' ' right ' ' may write 

It " wright" and still be wrong— 
For "wright" and "rite" are neither 
' ' right, ' ' 

And don't to write belong. 
Beer often brings a bier to man, 

Coughing a coffin brings, 
And too much ale will make us ail, 

As well as other things. 
The person lies who says he lies 

When he is but reclining; 
And when consumptive folks recline, 

They all decline declining. 
A quail don't quail before a storm, 

A bough don't bow before it, 
We can not reign the rain at all, 

No earthly power reigns o'er it. 
A dyer dies a while, then dies; 

To dye he's always trying 
Until, upon his dying bed, 

He thinks no more of dyeing. 
The son of Mars mars many a son; 

All deys must have their days, 
'Tis meet that man should mete out meat 

To feed misfortune's son; 
The fair should fare on love alone, 

Else one can not >e won. 
The spring springs forth in Spring, and 
shoots, 

Shoots forward one and all; 
Though Summer kills the flowers, it 
leaves 

The leaves to fall in Fall. 
I would a story here commence, 

But you might find it stale; 
So let's suppose that we have reached 

The tail end of our tale. 



WANTED. 

A hat for the head of a fountain, 
A glove for the hand of fate, 

A shoe for the foot of a mountain, 
A link from the chain of debate. 

A spoke from the wheel of fortune, 
A chip from the "pole" of the South, 

A drink from the fountain of knowledge, 
A word from the river's mouth. 

A drop from the cup of sorrow, 
A look from the face of the storm, 

A stroke from the arm of justice, 
A ring for the finger of scorn. 

A knock at the door of repentance, 
A throb from the ocean's heart. 

A glance from the eye of a needle, 
From Cupid's bow a dart. 

A piece of the Eock of Ages. 

A plume from the wing of Time, 
Some milk of human kindness, 

And I have done my rhyme. 

—Mien M. Nave. 



CHESTNUTS SET TO EHYME. 

Oh, what makes the chimney sweep? 

And why did the codfish ball? 
And why, oh, why did the peanut stand? 

And what makes the evening call? 

Oh, why should the baby farm? 

And why does the mutton chop ? 
Can you tell me what makes the elder- 
blow? 

Or what makes the ginger pop? 

Say why does the terrible bed spring? 

And why does the saddle-horse fly? 
Or what makes the pillow slip? 

And why do the soap boilers lye? 

What made the monkey wrench? 

Or why should the old mill dam? 
And who did the shoemaker strike? 

Or why did the raspberry jam? 

Or why should a tree bark? 

And what makes the wind howl? 
Can you tell me what makes the snow 
ball? 
Or what makes the chimney foul? 

— Atlanta Constitution. 



OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES 



123 



OLD SAYINGS. 
As blunt as 'a beetle, 

As sharp as a lauce, 
As grave as a preacher, 

As gay as a dance, 
As late as the gloamin', 

As like as two peas, 
As crook 'd as a ram's horn, 

As round as a cheese. 

As flat as a flounder, 

As sticky as gum, 
As wide as a common, 

As tight as a drum. 
As white as a miller, 

As black as a crow, 
As lean as a greyhound, 

As bent as a bow. 

As frail as a bandbox, 

As stout as an oak, 
As queer as a quaker, 

As game as a cock, 
As cute as a lawyer, 

As square as a die, 
As keen as a razor, 

As warm as a pie. 

As drunk as a piper, 

As sober as a judge, 
As clean as a shaving, 

As filthy as smudge, 
As swift as an arrow, 

As slow as a snail, 
As blithe as a linnet, 

As right as the mail. 

— Glasgow Herald. 



A LITERARY ODDITY. 
The Brewers should to Malta go, 

The Boobies all to Sicily, 
The Quakers to the Friendly Isles, 

The Furriers to Chili. 



The little snarling, carroling 
That break our nightly rest, 

Should be packed off to Baby-Ion, 
To Lapland, or to Brest. 

From Spit-head Cooks go o'er to Greece, 

And while the Miser waits 
His passage to the Guinea coast, 

Spendthrifts are in the Straits. 

Spinsters should to the Needles go, 
"Wine bibblers to Burgundy, 

Gourmands should lunch at Sandwich 
Isles, 
"Wags at the Bay of Fun-dy. 



Batchelors to the United States, 
Maids to the Isle of Man; 

Let Gardeners go to Botany Bay, 
And Shoeblacks to Japan. 

Thus emigrate — and misplaced men 
"Will here no longer vex us; 

And all who aint provided for 
Had better go to Texas. 



THE TRAIN. 

Hark! 
It comes? 
It humbs ! 
With ear to the ground 
I catch the sound, 
The warning courier-roar 
That runs long before, 
The pulsing struggling now is clearer! 
The hillside echo. ''Nearer, nearer." 
Till like a drove of rushing, frightened 

cattle, 
With dust and wind and clang and 
shriek and rattle, 

Passes the Cyclops of the train ! 
I see a fair face at a pane — 
Like a piano-string 
The rails unburdened sing 
The white smoke flies 
Up to the skies; 
The Sound 
Is Drowned — 
Hark! 



COURTSHIP BY NOTE. 

A Major loved a maiden so, 

His warlike heart was soft as Do. 

He oft would kneel to her and say: 
"Thou art of life my only Re. 

"Ah! if but kinder thou would 'st be, 
And sometimes sweetly smile on Mi! 

"Thou art my life, my guiding star, 
I love thee near, I love thee Fa. 

"My passion I can not control, 
Thou art the idol of my Sol." 

The maiden said : ' ' Oh, fie ! ask pa ; 
How can you go on thus ? Oh, La ! " 

The Major rose from bended knee, 
And went her father for to Si. 



124 



OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES 



A POEM FBOM BIBLE TEXTS. 



Cling to the Mighty One, 

Cling in thy grief, 
Cling to the Holy One, 

He gives relief; 
Cling to the Gracious One, 

Cling in thy pain; 
Cling to the Faithful One, 

He will sustain. 



Ps. lxxxix; 19. 
Heb. xii; 11. 
Heb. vii ; 11. 
Ps. cxvi ; 6. 
Ps. cxvi ; 5. 
Ps. iv ; 4. 
1 Thess. v; 23. 
Ps. iv; 24. 



Cling to the Living One, 

Cling to thy woe, 
Cling to the Living One, 

Through all below, 
Cling to the Pardoning One, 

He speaketh peace, 
Cling to the Healing One, 

Anguish shall cease. 



Heb. vii; 25. 
Ps. Ixxxvi ; 7. 
1 John iv ; 16. 
Rom. vii ; 38-3£ 
John xiv; 27. 
John xiv ; 23. 
Bxod. xv ; 25. 
Ps. cxvii; 27. 



Cling to the Bleeding One, 

Cling to His side, 
Cling to the Bisen One, 

In Him abide ; 
Cling to the Coming One, 

Hope shall arise, 
Cling to the Beigning One, 

Joy lights thine eyes. 



1 John ii; 27. 
John xx ; 27. 
Rom. vi ; 9. 
John xv ; 4. 
Rev. xxii ; 20. 
Titus ii ; 20. 
Ps. xcvii ; 1. 
Ps. xvi ; 11. 



HUMOES OF LITEEAEY NAMES. 

Pray, what did T. Buchanan Bead? 

At what end E. A. Poe? 
What volumes did Elizur Wright? 

And where did E. P. Eoe? 

Is Thomas Hardy nowadays? 

Is Eider Haggard pale? 
Is Minot Savage? Oscar Wilde? 

And Edward Everett Hale? 

Was Lawrence Sterne? Was Hermaan 
Grimm? 

Was Edward Young? John Gay? 
Jonathan Swift? and old John Bright? 

And why was Thomas Gray? 

Was John Brown? and is J. E. Green? 
Chief Justice Taney quite? 
Is William Black? E. D. Blackmore? 
Mark Lemon? H. K. White? 

Was Francis Bacon lean in streaks? 

John Suckling vealy? Pray, 
Was Hogg much given to the pen? 

Are Lamb's Tales sold to-day? 



Did Mary Mapes Dodge just in time? 

Did C. D. Warner? How? 
At what did Andrew marvel so? 

Does Edward Whymper now? 

What goodies did Bose Terry Cooke? 

Or Eichard Boyle beside? 
What gave the wicked Thomas Paine? 

And made Mark Akenside? 

Was Thomas Tickell-ish at all? 

Did Eichard Steele I ask? 
Tell me, has George A. Sala suit? 

Did William Ware a mask? 

Does Henry Cabot Lodge at Home? 

John Home Tooke what and when? 
Is Gorden Cumming? Has G. W. 

Cabled his friends again? 

—Mary Packard Bollins. 



EIGHT-WOED POEMS. 

A novel competition was recently got- 
ten up by a London journal, called An- 
swers, in which prizes were offered for 



OLD SAYINGS 


AND ODDITIES 125 


the best eight-word poems. The editor 


SAD FATE. 


desired 1,500, and received 15,000. Here 


Forest glen, 


are some of the best: 


Lion's den. 


HIS REMEDY. 


Savage tones, 
Eags, bones. 


Noble earl, 




Lost bets; 




'Murriean girl 


FALSE/ 


Title gets. 


Lovely girl, 




Golden hair: 




"Windy whirl, 


we've spared it. 


Tresses— where? 


Little poem, 




Lacks fire; 
Sent back — 






Kitchen fire. 


CEISS CEOSS. 


— 


If you stick a stick across a stick 


JILTED. 


Or stick a cross across a stick 


Brain whirl; 


Or cross a stick across a stick 


Madly jealous; 
My girl 


Or stick a cross across a cross 


Or cross a cross across a stick 


Or cross a cross across a cross 


Other fellow's. 


Or stick a cross stick across a stick 


— 


Or stick a crossed stick across a crossed 


THE COLOR WAS NOT FAST. 


stick 


Lady bold; 


Or cross a crossed stick across a cross 


Hair gold; 


Or cross a crossed stick across a stick 


Eain — alack! 


Or cross a crossed stick across a crossed 


Hair black. 


stick, 




Would that be an acrostic? 




— Christian Union. 


HOW IT WAS DONE. 




Angler firm, 




Little worm; 




Silly fish, 


YOU. 


Dainty dish. 


The Chinaman praiseth his T's, 





The mandarin praiseth his Q. 


HIS DESTINATION. 


The gardener praiseth his turnips 




and P's, 


Hunter, bear, 


But I praise U. 


Struggling pair. 




Man inferior; 


The mariner loveth the C's, 


Gone interior. 


The billiardist loveth his Q, 




The husbandman loveth his cattle 


— 


and B's, 


NATURAL. 


But I love U. 


Boating excursion, 


The foolish have need- of the T's, 


Sudden immersion. 


The actor needeth his Q, 


Kescue effected; 


The pilot hath need of two excellent I's, 


Wedding expected! 


But I need U. 


— 


The hunter seeketh the J's, 


HAPPY THOUGHT. 


The shepherd seeketh his U, 


Stony broke, 


The college boys seek their final 


Meager fare: 


"B-AV 


Patent soap, 


But ICQ. 


Millionaire ! 


— April St. Nicholas. 



126 



OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES 



IS IT POSSIBLE? 

Ten weary, foot-sore travelers, 

All in a woful plight, 
Sought shelter at a wayside inn 

One dark and stormy night. 

' ' Nine beds, no more, ' ' the landlord said, 

"Have I to offer you; 
To each of eight a single room, 

But the ninth must serve for two. ' ' 

A din arose. The troubled host 
Could only scratch his head; 

For of those tired men no two 
Could occupy one bed. 



The puzzled host was soon at ease — 

He was a clever man — 
And to place all his guests devised 

This most ingenious plan : 



A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I 

In room marked A two men were placed ; . 

The third he lodged in B; 
The fourth to C was then assigned; 

The fifth retired to D; 

In E the sixth he tucked away, 

In E the seventh man; 
The eighth and ninth in G and H, 

And then to A he ran, 

"Wherein the host, as I have said, 
Had laid two travelers by, 

Then taking one— the tenth and last- 
He lodged him safe in I. 

Nine single rooms — a room for each — 

Were made to serve for ten, 
And this it is that puzzles me, 
j And many wiser men. 



>ense an 



dN 



onsense 



LITTLE LIZETTE. 

As little Lizette was out walking one 

day, 
Attired with great splendor in festal 

array, 
She met little Gretchen, in sober hued 

gown, 
With a basket of eggs trudging off to 

the town. 



"Good morning! Good morning!" cried 

little Lizette, 
"You haven't been over to visit me yet. 
Come over and live with me always, pray 

do, 
For I have no sisters; how many have 

you?" 

"Nein," answered wee Gretchen. Lizette 

cried, "Ah, me! 
I have to pretend I have sisters, you see. 
But try as I will, I can't make it seem 

true. 
And I have no brothers. How many have 

you?" 

"Neiii," answered wee Gretchen. 

' ' Nine ! ' ' echoed Lizette, 
""Why, you are the luckiest girl I have 

met! 
And have you a baby at home; tell me 

now?" 
"Nein," answered wee Gretchen, and 

made a droll bow. 

Then lingered Lizette by the roadside 
that day, 

To watch the wee maiden go trudging 
away. 

"Nine brothers, nine sisters, nine babies 
to pet, 

Oh, I wish I was Gretchen! " sighed lit- 
tle Lizette. 

—Katherine S. Alcorn. 



THE WAY IT STRUCK HER. 

A little ragged orphan girl, who ne 'er 
Had had a home, nor known a parent's 

care, 
And who, with shoeless feet and hatless 

head, 
Newspapers sold to earn her scanty bread, 
Was taken from the city far away, 
With others of her kind, one summer 

day, 
To look upon the ocean. At the sight 
Her thin, sharp face was filled with grave 

delight. 
And some one said, "I wonder what 

can be 
Her thoughts, poor child, about this 

mighty sea?" 
She heard the words and quickly turned 

her head, 
And in low tones, " I 's thinkin ' ma 'am, ' ' 

she said, 
" I 's glad I corned, because I never sor 
Enough of anything at wunst before." 
— Margaret Eytinge. 



THE CAKE THAT WAS BURNT. 

There was a little cook, and she made a 

little cake, 
She put it in the oven just to bake, bake, 
bake; 
It was fidl of plums and spice 
And of everything that's nice, 
And she said, "An hour, I reckon, it 
will take, take, take ! ' ' 

And then that little cook went to have a 

Little play, 
With a very charming cat across the way, 
way, way; 
She forgot the cake, alack! 
It was burnt, well, almost black, 
And I wondered what the cook's mamma 
would say, say say! 



128 



SENSE AND NONSENSE 



The little cook ran off, and confessed her 

tale of woe, 
For to find her cake a cinder was a blow, 
blow, blow! 
' ' Cheer up, ' ' her mother said, 
As she stroked the golden head. 
' ' For accidents will happen, we all know, 
know, know ! ' ' 

—Cassell's Little Folks. 



ADAM NEVER WAS 'A BOY. 

Of all the men the world has seen 

Since Time his rounds began, 
There's one I pity every day — 

Earth's first and foremost man. 
And then I think what fun he missed 

By failing to enjoy 
The wild delights of youthtime, for 

He never was a boy. 

He never stubbed his naked toe 

Against a root or stone; 
He never with a pin hook fished 

Along the brook alone; 
He never sought the bumblebee 

Among the daisies coy, 
Nor felt its business end, because 

He never was a boy. 

He never hooky played, nor tied 

The ever ready pail 
Down in the alley all alone 

To trusting Fido's tail. 
And when he home from swimmin' came 

His happiness to cloy 
No slipper interfered, because 

He never was a boy. 

He never cut a kite string, no ! 

Nor hid an Easter egg; 
He never ruined his pantaloons 

A-playing mumble peg; 
He never from the attic stole 

A coon hunt to enjoy, 
To find the "old man" watching, for 

He never was a boy. 

I pity him. Why should I not? 

I even drop a tear; 
He did not know how much he missed; 

He never will, I fear. 
And when the scenes of "other days" 

My growing mind employ 
I think of him — earth's only man 

Who never was a boy. 

— T. C. Haroaugh. 



WHEN MOTHER FEEDS THE 
CHICKENS. 

A while before the sun has rose, 

'N' father builds the kitchen fire, 
Our big black rooster crows 'n' crows, 

'Z if his neck would never tire; 
'N'en we get up 'n' feed the stock 

'N' water Fannie 'n' milk the cows, 
'N fix a gate er broken lock; 

'N'en after breakfas' father plows 

'N' mother feeds the chickens. 

The pancakes Wallie wouldn't eat 

'N ' cornbread left on Mar jorie 's plate, 
A scrap of toast, a bit of meat, 

'N' all the stuff what no' one ate, 
She puts it in that worn-out tin, 

Throws out some grain, 'n' pretty 
quick 
She hollers nearly 's loud 's she kin, 

"Come chick! chick! chick! chick! 
chick! chick! " — 

So— when she feeds the chickens. 
You'd ought to see old Top-Knot run, 
'N' Banty hop— he's hurt one leg— 
'N' Plymouth Rock (the bigges' one — 
She lays a 'nomous monstrus egg) — 
'N'en Speckle, with her new-hatched 
brood, 
A-cluckin' to 'em 's hard's she kin, 
'N' showin' 'em the nices' food — 
She gets it for 'em out the tin, 

'N' peeks the other chickens. 

Old Gray, our cat, comes snoopin' roun' 

'N ' slyly peeks from hind the stoop ; 
'F any meat's tnere he is boun' 

'T shant go to the chicken coop. 
Now filled with all an owner's pride, 

Wee Willie comes with wondrous eyes, 
That look so brown 'n' bright 'n' wide; 

He loves to watch 'em, 'n' he cries — 
' ' Des see my baby tickens ! ' ' 

I love to ride the colt a lot 

'N go fer berries to the patch 5 
I love to see our dog 'n' Spot 

Get in a turble scrappin' match; 
'N' tho' it's kind o' quiet fun, 

I like it nearly best of all; 
That's why I alius cut 'n' run 

To see 'em 'f I hear the call — 
"Come chick! chick! chick! chick chick! 
chick! chick!"— 

When mother feeds the chickens. 
— Will L. Davis, in Chicago Becord. 



SENSE AND NONSENSE 



129 



LET HIM PERSEVERE. 

He had spent long years in college, and 
acquired all kinds of knowledge, 
From smoking cigarettes to reading 
Greek, 
And it was said by many that in Hebrew, 
Eskimo and Latin 
With the accent of a native he could 
speak. 
He knew every modern science, and for 

every new appliance 
He was able some new improvement 

to suggest; 
And from bending on a hawser up to 

criticising Chaucer, 
Of all the greatest minds he was 

abreast. 

He was charmed with hydrostatics, and 
in higher mathematics 
Not a thing to stump him could he 
find; 
And to prove a line's direction or bisect 
a conic section 
Was but as relaxation to his mind. 

But he saw a little maiden, after all this 
store he 'dy laid in, 
The most . inviting problem he had 
met, 
And he fellt it in his mission to employ 
his erudition 
To solve this most perplexing question 
yet. 

So without a bit of shirking he has ever 
since been working 
On the problem, with an ardor that 
ne'er tires; 
Yet with all his application, to his great 
and deep vexation, 
He can not get the answer he desires. 
—J. G. Thacker, in New York Sun. 



BLISS. 



He was a little negro 
And sat upon a fence, 

He hadn't any father 
Nor any mother, hence 

He was a little orphan 
And hadn't any sense. 

He thought the earth a circle 
But flat as any floor; 

Was sure it scarce extended 
Beyond the river shore; 



And thought the stream the Jordan 
Which Israel passed o'er. 

He knew the sun at twilight 

Just put himself to bed 
Underneath a coverlet 

Of purple, blue and red; 
Except on stormy evenings 

When it used black instead. 

He b'lieved the stars in heaven 
Were blessed angels' eyes 

"A-peepin froo de openin's 
Ter see who steals de pies"— 

At least so said his auntie, 
And she was very wise . 

And then he thought his conscience, 
The throbbing 'neath his ribs 

That beat so fast and loudly 
Whenever he told fibs, 

Which was often, each one prefaced 
By "True as eber yer libs! " 

And he was sure Elijah 

Would come for him some night, 
And take him in a chariot, 

All glorious with light, 
To a sweet and happy country 

Where every one was white. 

He was a little negro 

And sunned him on the fence, 
He hadn't any knowledge 

Nor any money, hence 
He was supremely happy — 

Each has his recompense! 

— Independent. 



BABY BROTHER. 

Yes, I've got a little brother 
Never asked to have him, nuther, 

But he's here. 
They just went away and bought him, 
And last week the doctor brought him, 

Weren't that queer? 
When I heard the news from Molly, 
Why I thought at first 'twas jolly, 

'Cause you see, 
I s 'posed I could go and get him 
And then manna, course, would let him 

Play with me. 
But when I had once looked at him, 
'"Why," I says, "Great snakes, is that 
him? 

Just that mite! 



130 



SENSE AND NONSENSE 



They said "Yes," and "Ain't he eun- 

nin'?" 
And I thought they must be funnin' — 

He's a sight! 
He's so small, it's just amazin, 
And you'd think that he was blazin', 

He's so red. 
And his nose is like a berry, 
And he's bald as Uncle Jerry 

On bis head. 
Why, he isn't worth a brick, 
All he does is cry and kick, 

He can't stop; 
Won't sit up, you can't arrange him — 
I don't see why pa don't change him, 

At the shop. 
Now we've got to dress and feed him, 
And we really didn't need him 

More'n a frog; 
Why'd they buy a baby brother 
When they know I 'd good deal ruther 

Have a dog? 

—Kansas Farmer. 



"QUEEE SPELLS." 

A gentleman took a long cruise 
To cure an attack of the bluise, 

He went on a yacht 

He lately had bacht, 
And now the wide ocean he vuise. 

—Boston Courier. 

A youth far out on the ocean, 
Grew ill from the ship 's rocking mocean. 
With a sigh and a crigh, 

And a tear in his igh, 
Of living he gave up the noeean. 

—Truth. 



A small dude bought a seat on the aisle, 
And dressed himself up in great staisle; 

But when a large hat 

Down in front of him sat 
Then people all wanted to smaisle. 



There was a young girl in Eau Claire, 
Who was witty, and good, and seau f aire ; 
All the other girls found, 
That when she was around, 
They were just counted out as neau 
whaire. —Hawkeye. 



A poor little fellow called Vaughan 
Was playing one day on the laughan, 
When a whirlwind came nigh, 
Took him up to the skigh 
And none could tell where he had 
gaughan. —Truth. 



The shoemaker sharpended his knife, 
Tor he and his wife were at kstrif e, 
And said, "Now at klast 
All bounds you have kpassed! 
Say your prayers and bid farewell to 
klif e ! ' ' —New YorTc Herald. 



The bride was led up the broad aisle, 
Got up in the most killing staisle, 

When asked if she'd be 

A true wife to he 
She promptly replied: "I should 
—Puck. 



A timid young man in Macomb 
Took a beautiful maid to her homb; 
The bulldog was loose 
Kind words were no use, 
So up the an oak tree he did roamb. 



An old yellow dog in Cologne 
Ean away with an an old woman 's bogne ; 
But the wrathful old crogne 
Hit him twice with a stogne, 
And 'twas dreadful to hear the dog 
grogne. 

—Burlington Hawkeye. 



HEE FIEST CAKE. 

She measured out the butter with a very 
solemn air; 

The milk and sugar also; and she took 
the greatest care 

To count the eggs correctly and to add 
a little bit 

Of baking powder, which you know, be- 
ginners oft omit. 

Then she stirred it all together and she 
baked it full an hour — 

But she never quite forgave herself for 
leaving out the flour! 

—E. L. Sylvester. 



SENSE 'AND NONSENSE 



131 



ONE OF HIS NAMES. 

Never a boy had so many names; 
They called him Jimmy and Jim and 



Jeems and Jamie; and well he knew 
Who it was that wanted him too. 

The boys in the street ran after him, 
Shouting out loudly, "Jim! Hey 

J-i-m-m I " 
Until the echoes, little and big, 
Seemed to be dancing a Jim Crow jig. 

And little Mabel, out in the hall, 
' ' Jimmy ! Jimmy ! ' ' would sweetly call, 
Until he answered, and let her know 
Where she might find him, she loved 
him so. 

Grandpa, who was dignified, 

And held his head up with an air of 

pride, 
Didn't believe in abridging names, 
And made the most he could of 

' ' J-a-m-e-s. ' ' 

But if papa ever wanted him, 

Crisp and curt was the summons ' ' Jim ! ' ' 

That would make the boy on his errands 

run 
Much faster than if he had said "My 

Son." 



DELSAKTEANISM. 

She bendeth low — 

She kicketh high; 

She swayeth gently to and fro— 

She treadeth only on her toe; 

And, when I ask the reason why, 

The lissome lady doth reply: 

' ' Dear Edmund Eussel doeth so. ' ' 

"And who may Edmund Eussell be?" 

'Tis thus I catechize her. 

She looketh in amaze on me; 

She saith, "In truth, I pity thee!" 

She cried, "Shame unto thee! Why sir, 

The high priest of Delsarte is he— 

A type of wan flaccidity — 

Our dear devitalizer ! ' ' 

She fluttereth her wrists 
Just like that matchless man; 
She battereth her fists; 
She doeth wondrous twists, 



Though I don't see how she can. 
She whirls and spins; insists 
She likes it, till vague mists 
Swim 'round her and she's wan — 
Just like that prince of priests, 
The pale Delsartean. 

—Buffalo Courier. 



TOO BAD. 

Nothing to do but work; 

Nothing to eat but food; 
Nothing to wear but clothes 

To keep one from being nude. 

Nothing to breathe but air- 
Quick as a flash 'tis gone — 

Nowhere to fall but off 
Nowhere to stand but on. 



Nothing to comb but hair, 

Nowhere to sleep but bed, 
Nothing to weep but tears; 

No one to bury but dead. 

Nothing to sing but songs; 

Ah, well, alas and alack! 
Nowhere to go but out; 

Nowhere to come but back. 

Nothing to see but sights; 

Nothing to quench but thirst; 
Nothing to have but what we've got, 

Thus through our lives we're cursed. 

Nothing to strike but a gait— 
Everything moves that goes; 

Nothing at all but common sense 
Can ever withstand these woes. 



SNAKES. 

You have heard of "the snake in the 

grass," my boy, 
Of the terrible snake in the grass; 
But now you must know 
Man's deadliest foe 
Is a snake of a different class. 

Alas! 
'Tis the venemous snake in the glass ! 
—J. G. Saxe. 



132 



SENSE- AND NONSENSE 



DISCOVERED. 

As snowdrifts melt one may perceive 

Much buried history; 
Somebody's sad neglect betrayed, 
A rake a hoe, a garden spade, 
A missing ax, a much sought pail, 
A scrubbing brush, a card, "For Sale,' 
A wilted doll, its color gone, 
That "baby" left out on the lawn, 
The kitchen broom, old Bowser's chain; 
Ah! yes, the melting drifts explain 

The awful mystery 
And treasures sadly mourned retrieve. 



PERSEVEEE. 

S'pose the fish don't bite at fust; 

What be you goin' to do? 
Chuck down your pole, throw out your 
bait, 

An' say your fishin's through? 
Uv course you hain't; you're goin' to 
fish, 

An' fish, an' fish, an' wait 
Until you've ketched your basket full, 

An' used up all your bait. 

S'pose success don't come at fust; 

What be you goin' to dew? 
Throw up the sponge and kick yourself, 

An' go to feelin' blue? 
Uv course you hain't; you've got to fish, 

An' bait, an' bait ag'in. 
Bimeby success will bite your hook, 

An' you will pull him in. 

—Houston Post. 



LIFE. 

Life's a lesson all must git, 
Never was a feller yit 
Shirked the task and got along — 
Got to study, hard and strong! 
'Bout sixteen we think we know 
'Nough to last where'er we go; 
Then we're sure, at twenty-one, 
We know all beneath the sun, 
Thirty comes, an' then we feel 
We 've of wisdom quite a deal, 
But at forty we cry, "Darn! 
Now, I guess I'll start and 1 'am!" 
Fifty comes, an' then, behold! 
We conclude we're gettin' old, 
Look back at the wasted past— 
On the years that went so fast — 
An' we think, "By gosh, it's queer 
I know less from year to year! 
If I don't get up an' try, 
I '11 know nothin ' when I die ! ' ' 
Then we delve, an' work, an' grind, 
Study everything we find; 
Try to find out why we 're here, 
Why we 're spared from year to year ; 
Study every single page 
Of the book; but, at this age, 
Learnin's hard. We sadly sigh. 
Then comes seventy. Time to die! 
Shut the book of life up tight ; 
School is over an' it's night, 
Then we say, an' feel so small— 
"Ain't learned nothin' after all!" 

—Boston Traveler. 



Index of Titl 



es 



Page 

Adam Never Was a Boy 128 

Advice to a Boy 57 

A Hint 22 

Aim of Life, The 76 

A Life Story 34 

A Listening Bird 94 

Alone 77 

A Lullaby 10 

Always a Biver to Cross 63 

An Aim 68 

An Alphabetical Bhyme 119 

An Angel Here 51 

A Poem from Bible Tests 124 

A Queer Boy 66 

A Seed 84 

A Single Stitch 85 

A Sister 's Love 32 

At His Mother 's Knee 31 

Baby Brother 129 

Baby Choir, The 19 

Baby Louise 13 

Baby May 11 

Baby 's Evening Song 16 

Baby 's Eeply 9 

Baby 's Stratagem 17 

Beautiful Extract 118 

Beautiful Things 100 

Be a Woman 103 

Be Earnest 78 

Bed Time Fancies 13 

Be Polite 59 

Better Late Than Never 79 

Better Things 108 

Bill Was There! 94 

Blindfolded and Alone I stand .... 114 

Bliss 129 

Boys Wanted 66 

Butterfly in the City, A 96 



Page 

Canadian Lullaby, A 10 

Castle Building 104 

Cheerful Heart, The 88 

Cheering Words 55 

Chestnuts Set to Ehyme . 122 

Children's Music, The 116 

Choosing a Name 19 

Child and Mother 35 

Christmas Bells 42 

Christmas Day 43 

Christmas Carol, A 46 

Conscience and Bemorse 96 

Consolation 50 

Country Boy, The 104 

Courtship By Note 123 

Cradle Song 8 

Criss Cross 125 

Dance of the Months 45 

Day By Day 77 

Dear Mother-Heart 34 

Delsarteanism 131 

Diplomacy 23 

Discovered 132 

Do All that You Can 81 

Dollars and Cents 117 

Do Not Forget 53 

Don't Take it to Heart 68 

Drifting 84 

Duty's Path 91 

Eight-Word Poems 124 

English Sovereigns, The 106 

Epigrammatic 51 

Farmer Boy, The 67 

Fate 93 

Father Take My Hand 100 

Forever 102 

For the School Boys 87 

Fred Englehardt's Baby 12 



134 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Page 

From the German 85 

Golden Hair 15 

Golden Keys 24 

Good-Night and Good-Morning. ... 15 

Good Temper . , 49 

Grandma 's Boy 39 

Grandma 's Wedding Gown 31 

Grandpa's Pet 24 

Great Expectations 85 

Growing Old Ill 

Grown-Up Land 71 

Happiness 54 

Health Alphabet 113 

He is a Hero 99 

Help One Another 72 

Here and There 53 

Her First Cake 130 

Her Name 21 

Her Little Boy 35 

Her Papa 20 

His Birthday 46 

Home 31 

How to Be Happy 52 

Humors of Literary Names 124 

Hymn for a Child 83 

Idiosyncrasies 119 

I. Dunno and I. Knowit 95 

If 50 88 

If I Knew 88 

If I Were Santa Claus 43 

If I Were You 60 

If Mother Knew 97 

If We Could Know 76 

If We Knew 49 

If You 're Good 43 

I Meant To 93 

Intry-Mintry 18 

I'll Put it Off 79 

Influence 83 

In Grandmama 's Time 110 

In the Battle 58 

Inventory of a Drunkard 105 

I Saw Three Ships 42 

Is It Possible? 126 

Island of Dreams, The 27 

It Pays 87 



I Will Be Worthy of It 

Jane Jones 

Jimmie Boy's Letter to Santa Claus 

Johnny 

Jolly Winter Weather 

Keep in the Golden Way 

Kindness 

Kissed His Mother 

Lad and Lass 

Land of Little People, The 

Land of "Make Believe," The.... 

Learn a Little Every Day 

Leedle Yacob Strauss 

Left Alone 

Let Him Persevere 

Life 52, 65, 

Life in Six Acts 

Life is Too Short 

Literary Oddity, A 

Little Boy's Pocket, A 

Little Boy Who Ean Away, The 

Little Brown Hands 

Little Children 

Little Drops of Water 

Little Feet 

Little Jim 

Little Lizette 

Little Millionaire, The 

Little Things 81, 

Love Bridge, The 

Lullaby 7, 

Magic Letter, The 

Mama ? s Good-Night 

Mary 

Mattie 's Wants and Wishes 

Mother 

Mother 's Little Lad 

Mother 's Eoom 

My Choice 

My Mother 36, 

My Neighbor 's Boy 

Neighbor Jim 

Never Again 

New Every Morning 

Nobility 

Noble Deeds 



Page 
67 
93 
44 
107 
112 
61 



83 

12 
30 

129 

132 

110 
78 

123 
22 
24 
73 
26 
85 
91 
44 

127 
21 
84 
20 
11 
92 
18 

102 
16 
33 
28 
36 

112 
38 
54 
88 
78 
75 
99 



INDEX OF TITLES 



135 



Page 

Nobody Knows But Mother 29 

Nothing is Lost 50 

Old Saws in Ehyme 119, 120 

Old Sayings 121, 123 

One at a Time 82 

One Day at a Time 83 

One of His Names 131 

Only a Baby 9 

Only One Mother 27 

Opportunity 75 

Our Arguments for Temperance .... 109 

Our Day is Today 86 

Our Fireside 28 

Our Heroes 63 

Our Presidents 107 

Paddle Your Own Canoe 58 

Paths 64 

Perseverance 68 

Persevere 132 

Pitty Pat and Tippy Toe 30 

Plodder's Petition, The 67 

Poetical Anatomy 105 

Prayer, The Unfinished 25 

"Queer Spells" 130 

Eemember, Boys Make Men 60 

Eoek-a-Bye 8 

Eock-a-Bye Baby 8, 9 

Eoom at the Top 67 

St. Nicholas, A Visit Prom 41 

Seven Points for Boys 57 

Shortem Shy and Herbert Spencer. . 115 

Slumber Song 11 

87 

131 

Somebody's Mother 54 

Some Day 28 

So Much to Learn 75 

Sonny, Never Mind 33 

Sowing and Eeaping 72 

Spelling Match, The 120 

Story-Book Boys Ill 

Strength for Today 76 

Sweetest of Lullabys, The 7 

Tapestry "Weavers, The 97 

Telling Fortunes '. 95 

Thar' Was Jim 103 



The Boy Who Minds His Mother 60 

The Cake That Was Burnt 127 

The Children 104 

The Dying Boy 117 

The English Language 122 

The Goodest Mother 35 

The Little Birdie Tells 110 

The Manliest are the Tenderest. . . . 102 

The Merrie Plowboy 116 

The Minuet 108 

The New Girls 113 

The Old Polks' Longing 37 

The Prayer 97 

The Eight WiU Eight Itself : . . 53 

The Eiver 78 

The Eudder 63 

The Tone of Voice 51 

The Tongue 84 

The Train 123 

The Underland 115 

The Vicar 's Sermon 64 

The Water That's Passed 79 

The Way It Struck Her 127 

The Way of It 112 

Three Ages 106 

Three Lessons 61 

Three Things 95, 100 

Thy Duty 61 

Time to Come Home 33 

Tiny Tokens 82 

Tired of Play 52 

To a Child Embracing His Mother. . 37 

To Get the Good of Living 66 

To My Mother 37 

Too Bad 131 

To the Boys 67 

Tribulations 116 

Two Lives 91 

Uniliteral Poem, An 121 

Valentine 's Day, On 114 

Vegetable Poetry 112 

"Wait Des a Minit" 22 

Wanted 49, 122 

Watching for Papa 23 

Watch Your Words 57 

Way to Sleeptown, The 17 



136 INDEX 


OF TITLES 




Welcome, Little Stranger 

What Are They Doing at Home? 

What Can You Do? 

What Does It Matter? 


Page 
20 
29 
73 
99 

113 
53 
60 
22 

118 
69 

101 
32 
94 


When Mother Feeds the Chickens . . . 

Where 's Mother? 

Where There's a Will There's a Way 
Which Loved Best? 


Page 

128 

27 

65 

71 


What is Glory? What is Fame? 

What is Good? 

What Not to Lose 


Who Bides His Time 


68 


Who's Afraid in the Dark? 

Why Don't You Laugh? 


18 

87 




81 


What's in a Smile? 

What the Clock Says 

When God Made You 

When Grandma Shuts Her Eyes .... 


Write Them a Letter Tonight 

Years and Years Ago 

You 

Young Lady's Soliloquy, A 


59 

114 

125 

71 

6*> 









To the Public 

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come, are requested to send name and address (by postal card) to the 
undersigned, that I may send you prospectus of another book of like 
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postage paid. 



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place you want agency for. Only one agent will be appointed for each 
place, excepting in cities, and then only where not on sale by dealers. 
Address all communications to JOHN W. BAIRD, 

Lombard Building, 

Indianapolis, Ind. 






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